UC-NRLF 


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THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 


OTHER  BOOKS 
BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


Monsieur  Beaucaire 

The  Gentleman  from  Indiana 

The  Two  Vanrevels 


THE    i 


BO< 


New  York ;  Jfc<?*«*>    Phillips 


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& 


The  Beautiful  Lady 


DRAWN  BY  BLENDON  CAMPBELL 


THE    BEAUTIFUL    LADY 

BOOTH    TARKINGTON 


New  York :  McClure,  Phillies  &  Co.:  Mcmv. 


Copyright,  1905,  by 
McCLURE,   PHILLIPS  &  CO. 

Published  May,  1905 


Copyright,  1904,  by  Harper  and  Brothers 


Ps 

? 
835- 


To  My  Wife 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Beautiful  Lady        .       .       .    Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


"Ah  I "  she  cried.     "  The  poor  man  !  "    . 


He  carried  with  him  in  the  powerful  car 
he  had  hired,  large  parties  of  strange 
people 64 

To  my  consternation  he  replied  by  inquir- 
ing if  I  had  shaved  my  head  as  yet 
that  morning 68 

The  contact  was  severe  enough  to  dislodge 
from  her  hand  her  folded  parasol,  for 
which  I  began  to  grope  ....  82 


List  of  Illustrations 
"Not  for  you,  Prince  Caravacioli"  she 
cried,  through  her  tears,  — "  Not  for 
you/"      .       .      ,      1    V    .      .       .    138 

A  hundred  bouquets  showered  into  the  car- 
riage, and  my  friend's  silver  went  out 
in  another  shower  to  meet  them  .  .  142 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 


whole 
of  the 


CHAPTER  ONE 

OTHING  could 
have    been    more 

XT     w  \   a^n^  *°  my  sen~ 

IN       ^111  sitiveness  than  to 
occupy  myself,  con- 
fused with  blushes, 
at  the  centre  of  the 
world  as  a  living  advertisement 
least  amusing  ballet  in  Paris. 
[3] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
To  be  the  day's  sensation  of  the 
boulevards  one  must  possess  an  eccen- 
tricity of  appearance  conceived  by 
nothing  short  of  genius;  and  my  mis- 
fortunes had  reduced  me  to  present 
such  to  all  eyes  seeking  mirth.  It  was 
not  that  I  was  one  of  those  people  in 
uniform  who  carry  placards  and  strange 
figures  upon  their  backs,  nor  that  my 
coat  was  of  rags;  on  the  contrary,  my 
whole  costume  was  delicately  rich  and 
well  chosen,  of  soft  grey  and  fine  linen 
(such  as  you  see  worn  by  a  marquis  in 
the  p£sage  at  Auteuil)  according  well 
with  my  usual  air  and  countenance, 
sometimes  esteemed  to  resemble  my 
father's,  which  were  not  wanting  in 
distinction. 

To  add  to  this,  my  duties  were  not 
[4] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
exhausting  to  the  body.  I  was  required 
only  to  sit  without  a  hat  from  ten  of 
the  morning  to  midday,  and  from  four 
until  seven  in  the  afternoon,  at  one 
of  the  small  tables  under  the  awning 
of  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix  at  the  corner 
of  the  Place  de  1'Opera —  that  is  to  say, 
the  centre  of  the  inhabited  world.  In 
the  morning  I  drank  my  coffee,  hot  in 
the  cup;  in  the  afternoon  I  sipped  it  cold 
in  the  glass.  I  spoke  to  no  one;  not  a 
glance  or  gesture  of  mine  passed  to 
attract  notice. 

Yet  I  was  the  centre  of  that  centre  of 
the  world.  All  day  the  crowds  sur- 
rounded me,  laughing  loudly;  all  the 
voyous  making  those  jokes  for  which  I 
found  no  repartee.  The  pavement  was 
sometimes  blocked;  the  passing  coach- 
[5] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
men  stood  up  in  their  boxes  to  look  over 
at  me,  small  infants  were  elevated  on 
shoulders  to  behold  me;  not  the  gravest 
or  most  sorrowful  came  by  without 
stopping  to  gaze  at  me  and  go  away 
with  rejoicing  faces.  The  boulevards 
rang  to  their  laughter  —  all  Paris 
laughed ! 

For  seven  days  I  sat  there  at  the  ap- , 
pointed  times,  meeting  the  eye  of  no- 
body, and  lifting  my  coffee  with  fingers 
which  trembled  from  embarrassment  at 
this  too  great  conspicuosity !  Those 
mournful  hours  passed,  one  by  the  year, 
while  the  idling  bourgeois  and  the  trav- 
ellers made  ridicule;  and  the  rabble  ex- 
hausted all  effort  to  draw  plays  of  wit 
from  me. 

I  have  told  you  that  I  carried  no 
[6] 


The  Beautiful   Lady 
placard,  that  my  costume  was  elegant, 
my  demeanour  modest  in  #11  degree. 

"How,  then,  this  excitement?" 
would  be  your  disposition  to  inquire. 
"Why  this  sensation?" 

It  is  very  simple.  My  hair  had  been 
shaved  off,  all  over  my  ears,  leaving 
only  a  little  above  the  back  of  the  neck, 
to  give  an  appearance  of  far-reaching 
baldness,  and  on  my  head  was  painted, 
in  ah !  so  brilliant  letters  of  distinctness : 

Theatre 

Folie-Rouge 

Revue 

de 

Printemps 
Tons  les  Soirs  ! 

Such  was  the  necessity  to  which  I  was 
at  that  time  reduced!  One  has  heard 
[7] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
that  .the  North-Americans  invent  the 
most  singular  advertising,  but  I  will  not 
believe  they  surpass  the  Parisian.  My- 
self, I  say  I  cannot  express  my  suffer- 
ings under  the  notation  of  the  crowds 
that  moved  about  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix! 
The  French  are  a  terrible  people  when 
they  laugh  sincerely.  It  is  not  so  much 
the  amusing  things  which  cause  them 
amusement;  it  is  often  the  strange, 
those  contrasts  which  contain  some- 
thing horrible,  and  when  they  laugh 
there  is  too  frequently  some  person  who 
is  uncomfortable  or  wicked.  I  am  glad 
that  I  was  born  not  a  Frenchman;  I 
should  regret  to  be  native  to  a  country 
where  they  invent  such  things  as  I  was 
doing  in  the  Place  de  TOpera;  for,  as  I 
tell  you,  the  idea  was  not  mine. 
[8] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
As  I  sat  with  my  eyes  drooping  before 
the  gaze  of  my  terrible  and  applauding 
audiences,  how  I  mentally  formed  curs- 
ing words  against  the  day  when  my  mis- 
fortunes led  me  to  apply  at  the  Theatre 
Folie-Rouge  for  work!  I  had  expected 
an  audition  and  a  role  of  comedy  in  the 
Revue;  for,  perhaps  lacking  any  expe- 
rience of  the  stage,  I  am  a  Neapolitan 
by  birth,  though  a  resident  of  the  Con- 
tinent at  large  since  the  age  of  fifteen. 
All  Neapolitans  can  act;  all  are  actors; 
comedians  of  the  greatest,  as  every  trav- 
eller is  cognizant.  There  is  a  thing  in 
the  air  of  our  beautiful  slopes  which 
makes  the  people  of  a  great  instinctive 
musicalness  and  deceptiveness,  with 
passions  like  those  burning  in  the  old 
mountain  we  have  there.  They  are 
[9] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
ready  to  play,  to  sing  —  or  to  explode, 
yet,  imitating  that  amusing  Vesuvio, 
they  never  do  this  last  when  you  are  in 
expectancy,  or,  as  a  spectator,  hopeful 
of  it. 

How  could  any  person  wonder,  then, 
that  I,  finding  myself  suddenly  desti- 
tute in  Paris,  should  apply  at  the  thea- 
tres ?  One  after  another,  I  saw  myself 
no  farther  than  the  director's  door,  until 
(having  had  no  more  to  eat  the  day  pre- 
ceding than  three  green  almonds,  which 
I  took  from  a  cart  while  the  good  female 
was  not  looking)  I  reached  the  Folie- 
Rouge.  Here  I  was  astonished  to  find  a 
polite  reception  from  the  director.  It 
eventuated  that  they  wished  for  a  per- 
son appearing  like  myself  —  a  person 
whom  they  would  outfit  with  clothes  of 
[10] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
quality  in  all  parts,  whose  external  pre- 
sented a  gentleman  of  the  great  world, 
not  merely  one  of  the  galant-uomini, 
but  who  would  impart  an  air  to  a  table 
at  a  cafe  where  he  might  sit  and  par- 
take. The  contrast  of  this  with  the  em- 
placement of  the  embellishment  on  his 
bald  head-top  was  to  be  the  success  of 
the  idea.  It  was  plain  that  I  had  no 
baldness,  my  hair  being  very  thick  and 
I  but  twenty-four  years  of  age,  when  it 
was  explained  that  my  hair  could  be 
shaved.  They  asked  me  to  accept,  alas ! 
not  a  part  in  the  Revue,  but  a  specialty 
as  a  sandwich-man.  Knowing  the  Eng- 
lish tongue  as  I  do,  I  may  afford  the 
venturesomeness  to  play  upon  it  a  little : 
I  asked  for  bread,  and  they  offered  me 
not  a  role,  but  a  sandwich! 


• 

The  Beautiful  Lady 
It  must  be  undoubted  that  I  possessed 
not  the  disposition  to  make  any  fun 
with  my  accomplishments  during  those 
days  that  I  spent  under  the  awning  of 
the  Cafe  de  la  Paix.  I  had  consented  to 
be  the  advertisement  in  greatest  des- 
peration, and  not  considering  what  the 
reality  would  be.  Having  consented, 
honour  compelled  that  I  fulfil  to  the 
ending.  Also,  the  costume  and  outfit- 
tings  I  wore  were  part  of  my  emolu- 
ment. They  had  been  constructed  for 
me  by  the  finest  tailor;  and  though  I 
had  impulses,  often,  to  leap  up  and 
fight  through  the  noisy  ones  about  me 
and  run  far  to  the  open  country,  the 
very  garments  I  wore  were  fetters  bind- 
ing me  to  remain  and  suffer.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  the  hours  were  spent  not  in 
[12] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
the  centre  of  a  ring  of  human  persons, 
but  of  un-well-made  pantaloons  and 
ugly  skirts.  Yet  all  of  these  pantaloons 
and  skirts  had  such  scrutinous  eyes  and 
expressions  of  mirth  to  laugh  like  de- 
mons at  my  conscious,  burning,  painted 
head ;  eyes  which  spread  out,  astonished 
at  the  sight  of  me,  and  peered  and 
winked  and  grinned  from  the  big  wrin- 
kles above  the  gaiters  of  Zouaves,  from 
the  red  breeches  of  the  gendarmes,  the 
knickerbockers  of  the  cyclists,  the  white 
ducks  of  sergents  de  ville,  and  the  knees 
of  the  boulevardiers,  bagged  with  sit- 
ting cross-legged  at  the  little  tables.  I 
could  not  escape  these  eyes; --how 
scornfully  they  twinkled  at  me  from  the 
spurred  and  glittering  officers'  boots! 
How  with  amaze  from  the  American 
[13] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
and  English  trousers,  both  turned  up 
and   creased   like   folded   paper,   both 
with  some  dislike  for  each   other  but 
for  all  other  trousers  more. 

It  was  only  at  such  times  when  the 
mortification  to  appear  so  greatly  em- 
barrassed became  stronger  than  the  em- 
barrassment itself  that  I  could  by  will 
power  force  my  head  to  a  straight  con- 
struction and  look  out  upon  my  specta- 
tors firmly.  On  the  second  day  of  my 
ordeal,  so  facing  the  laughers,  I  found 
myself  glaring  straight  into  the  mon- 
ocle of  my  half-brother  and  ill-wisher, 
Prince  Caravacioli. 

At  this,  my  agitation  was  sudden  and 

very  great,  for  there  was  no  one  I  wished 

to  prevent  perceiving  my  condition  more 

than  that  old  Antonio  Caravacioli!  I 

[14] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
had  not  known  that  he  was  in  Paris,  but 
I  could  have  no  doubt  it  was  himself: 
the  monocle,  the  handsome  nose,  the 
toupee,  the  yellow  skin,  the  dyed-black 
moustache,  the  splendid  height  —  it  was 
indeed  Caravacioli!  He  was  costumed 
for  the  automobile,  and  threw  but  one 
glance  at  me  as  he  crossed  the  pavement 
to  his  car,  which  was  in  waiting.  There 
was  no  change,  not  of  the  faintest,  in  that 
frosted  tragic  mask  of  a  countenance, 
and  I  was  glad  to  think  that  he  had  not 
recognized  me. 

And  yet,  how  strange  that  I  should 
care,  since  all  his  life  he  had  declined  to 
recognize  me  as  what  I  was!  Ah,  I 
should  have  been  glad  to  shout  his  age, 
his  dyes,  his  artificialities,  to  all  the 
crowd,  so  to  touch  him  where  it  would 
[15] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
most  pain  him !  For  was  he  not  the  vain- 
est man  in  the  whole  world  ?  How  well 
I  knew  his  vulnerable  point:  the  mon- 
strous depth  of  his  vanity  in  that  pre- 
tense of  youth  which  he  preserved 
through  superhuman  pains  and  a  genius 
of  a  valet,  most  excellently !  I  had  much 
to  pay  Antonio  for  myself,  more  for  my 
father,  most  for  my  mother.  This  was 
why  that  last  of  all  the  world  I  would 
have  wished  that  old  fortune-hunter  to 
know  how  far  I  had  been  reduced ! 

Then  I  rejoiced  about  that  change 
which  my  unreal  baldness  produced 
in  me,  giving  me  a  look  of  forty  years 
instead  of  twenty-four,  so  that  my  oldest 
friend  must  take  at  least  three  stares  to 
know  me.  Also,  my  costume  would  dis- 
guise me  from  the  few  acquaintances  I 
[16] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
had  in  Paris  (if  they  chanced  to  cross 
the  Seine),  as  they  had  only  seen  me  in 
the  shabbiest ;  while,  at  my  last  meeting 
with  Antonio,  I  had  been  as  fine  in  the 
coat  as  now. 

Yet  my  encouragement  was  not  so 
joyful  that  my  gaze  lifted  often.  On  the 
very  last  day,  in  the  afternoon  when  my 
observers  were  most  and  noisiest,  I 
lifted  my  eyes  but  once  during  the  final 
half-hour  —  but  such  a  once  that  was! 

The  edge  of  that  beautiful  grey  pon- 
gee skirt  came  upon  the  rim  of  my  low- 
ered eyelid  like  a  cool  shadow  over  hot 
sand.  A  sergent  had  just  made  many  of 
the  people  move  away,  so  there  re- 
mained only  a  thin  ring  of  the  laughing 
pantaloons  about  me,  when  this  divine 
skirt  presented  its  apparition  to  me.  A 
[17] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
pair  of  North-American  trousers  ac- 
companied it,  turned  up  to  show  the 
ankle-bones  of  a  rich  pair  of  stockings; 
neat,  enthusiastic  and  humorous,  I 
judged  them  to  be ;  for,  as  one  may  dis- 
cover, my  only  amusement  during  my 
martyrdom  —  if  this  misery  can  be  said 
to  possess  such  alleviatings  —  had  been 
the  study  of  feet,  pantaloons,  and  skirts. 
The  trousers  in  this  case  detained  my 
observation  no  time.  They  were  but  the 
darkest  corner  of  the  chiaroscuro  of  a 
Rembrandt  —  the  mellow  glow  of  gold 
was  all  across  the  grey  skirt. 

How  shall  I  explain  myself,  how 
make  myself  understood  ?  Shall  I  be 
thought  sentimentalistic  or  but  mad 
when  I  declare  that  my  first  sight  of  the 
grey  pongee  skirt  caused  me  a  thrill  of 
[18] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
excitation,  of  tenderness,  and  —  oh-i- 
me !  —  of  self-consciousness  more  acute 
than  all  my  former  mortifications.  It 
was  so  very  different  from  all  other 
skirts  that  had  shown  themselves  to  me 
those  sad  days,  and  you  may  under- 
stand that,  though  the  pantaloons  far 
outnumbered  the  skirts,  many  hundreds 
of  the  latter  had  also  been  objects  of  my 
gloomy  observation. 

This  skirt,  so  unlike  those  which  had 
passed,  presented  at  once  the  qualifica- 
tions of  its  superiority.  It  had  been  con- 
structed by  an  artist,  and  it  was  worn 
by  a  lady.  It  did  not  pine,  it  did  not 
droop;  there  was  no  more  an  atom  of 
hanging  too  much  than  there  was  a  por- 
tion inflated  by  flamboyancy;  it  did  not 
assert  itself ;  it  bore  notice  without  seek- 
[19] 


The   Beautiful   Lady 
ing  it.  Plain  but  exquisite,  it  was  that 
great  rarity  —  goodness  made  charm- 
ing. 

The  peregrination  of  the  American 
trousers  suddenly  stopped  as  they 
caught  sight  of  me,  and  that  precious 
skirt  paused,  precisely  in  opposition  to 
my  little  table.  I  heard  a  voice,  that  to 
which  the  skirt  pertained.  It  spoke  the 
English,  but  not  in  the  manner  of  the 
inhabitants  of  London,  who  seem  to 
sing  undistinguishably  in  Jtheir  talking, 
although  they  are  comprehensible  to 
each  other.  To  an  Italian  it  seems  that 
many  North-Americans  and  English 
seek  too  often  the  assistance  of  the  nose 
in  talking,  though  in  different  manners, 
each  equally  unagreeable  to  our  ears. 
The  intelligent  among  our  lazzaroni  of 
[20] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
Naples,  who  beg  from  tourists,  imitate 
this,  with  the  purpose  of  reminding  the 
generous  traveller  of  his  home,  in  such 
a  way  to  soften  his  heart.  But  there  is 
some  difference :  the  Italian,  the  French- 
man, or  German  who  learns  English 
sometimes  misunderstands  the  Amer- 
ican :  the  Englishman  he  sometimes  un- 
derstands. 

This  voice  that  spoke  was  North- 
American.  Ah,  what  a  voice!  Sweet  as 
the  mandolins  of  Sorrento!  Clear  as 
the  bells  of  Capri !  To  hear  it,  was  like 
coming  upon  sight  of  the  almond- 
blossoms  of  Sicily  for  the  first  time,  or 
the  tulip-fields  of  Holland.  Never  before 
was  such  a  voice! 

"Why  did  you  stop,  Rufus  ?"  it  said. 

"Look!"  replied  the  American  trou- 
[21] 


The   Beautiful  Lady 
sers;  so  that  I  knew  the  pongee  lady  had 
not  observed  me  of  herself. 

Instantaneously  there  was  an  excla- 
mation, and  a  pretty  grey  parasol, 
closed,  fell  at  my  feet.  It  is  not  the 
pleas  an  test  to  be  an  object  which  causes 
people  to  be  startled  when  they  behold 
you;  but  I  blessed  the  agitation  of  this 
lady,  for  what  caused  her  parasol  to  fall 
from  her  hand  was  a  start  of  pity. 

"Ah!"  she  cried.  "The  poor  man!" 

She  had  perceived  that  I  was  a  gen- 
tleman. 

I  bent  myself  forward  and  lifted  the 
parasol,  though  not  my  eyes  —  I  could 
not  have  looked  up  into  the  face  above 
me  to  be  Csesar!  Two  hands  came  down 
into  the  circle  of  my  observation ;  one  of 
these  was  that  belonging  to  the  trousers, 
[22] 


"Ah!"  she  cried.     "The  poor  man!" 

DRAWN  BY   BLENDOX  CAMPBELL 


The   Beautiful   Lady 
sers;  so  that  I  knew  the  pongee  lady  had 
not  observed  me  of  h 

Instantaneous; 

mation,    and  v    parasol, 

closed,  fell  at  my  feet,  if  is  not  the 
pleasantest  to  be  an  object  which  causes 
people  to  !  -led  when  they  behold 

you;  but  I  A  the  agitation  of  this 

lady,  for  what  rasol  to  fall 

from  her  hand  w:  rt  of  pily. 

"A'  man!'' 

She  i  <t  gen- 

tleman. 

I  bent  myself  forv  d  lifted  the 

parasol,  though  not  my  eyes  —  I  could 
not  have  looked  up  into  the  face  above 
me.  to  b  r  !  Two  h  ar  >  wn 

into  the  circle  of  my  ohmrwboii  ;  one  of 
these  was  that  belonging  ?  -rs, 


Koauaaa  va 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
thin,  long,  and  white;  the  other  was  the 
grey-gloved  hand  of  the.  lady,  and 
never  had  I  seen  such  a  hand  —  the 
hand  of  an  angel  in  a  suede  glove,  as 
the  grey  skirt  was  the  mantle  of  a  saint 
made  by  Doucet.  I  speak  of  saints  and 
angels;  and  to  the  large  world  these  may 
sound  like  cold  words.  — It  is  only  in 
Italy  where  some  people  are  found  to 
adore  them  still. 

I  lifted  the  parasol  toward  that  glove 
as  I  would  have  moved  to  set  a  candle 
on  an  altar.  Then,  at  a  thought,  I  placed 
it  not  in  the  glove,  but  in  the  thin  hand 
of  the  gentleman.  At  the  same  time  the 
voice  of  the  lady  spoke  to  me  —  I  was 
to  have  the  joy  of  remembering  that 
this  voice  had  spoken  four  words  to  me. 

"  Je  vous  remercie,  monsieur,"  it  said. 
[23] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 

"Pas  de  quoi!"  I  murmured. 

The  American  trousers  in  a  loud  tone 
made  reference  in  the  idiom  to  my  mis- 
erable head:  "Did  you  ever  see  any- 
thing to  beat  it  ?" 

The  beautiful  voice  answered,  and  by 
the  gentleness  of  her  sorrow  for  me  I 
knew  she  had  no  thought  that  I  might 
understand.  "Come  away.  It  is  too 
pitiful!" 

Then  the  grey  skirt  and  the  little 
round-toed  shoes  beneath  it  passed 
from  my  sight,  quickly  hidden  from  me 
by  the  increasing  crowd ;  yet  I  heard  the 
voice  a  moment  more,  but  fragmentar- 
ily:  "Don't  you  see  how  ashamed  he  is, 
how  he  must  have  been  starving  before 
he  did  that,  or  that  some  one  dependent 
on  him  needed  —  " 

[24] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 

I  caught  no  more,  but  the  sweetness 
that  this  beautiful  lady  understood  and 
felt  for  the  poor  absurd  wretch  was  so 
great  that  I  could  have  wept.  I  had  not 
seen  her  face;  I  had  not  looked  up  — 
even  when  she  went. 

"Who  is  she?"  cried  a  scoundrel 
voyou,  just  as  she  turned.  "Madame  of 
the  parasol  ?  A  friend  of  monsieur  of  the 
ornamented  head?" 

"No.  It  is  the  first  lady  in  waiting  to 
his  wife,  Madame  la  Duchesse,"  an- 
swered a  second.  "She  has  been  sent 
with  an  equerry  to  demand  of  monseig- 
neur  if  he  does  not  wish  a  little  sculp- 
ture upon  his  dome  as  well  as  the  colour 
decorations!" 

"'Tis  true,  my  ancient?"  another 
asked  of  me. 

[25] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
I  made  no  repartee,  continuing  to  sit 
with  my  chin  dependent  upon  my  cra- 
vat, but  with  things  not  the  same  in  my 
heart  as  formerly  to  the  arrival  of  that 
grey  pongee,  the  grey  glove,  and  the 
beautiful  voice. 

Since  King  Charles  the  Mad,  in  Paris 
no  one  has  been  completely  free  from 
lunacy  while  the  spring-time  is  happen- 
ing. There  is  something  in  the  sun  and 
the  banks  of  the  Seine.  The  Parisians 
drink  sweet  and  fruity  champagne  be- 
cause the  good  wines  are  already  in 
their  veins.  These  Parisians  are  born 
intoxicated  and  remain  so ;  it  is  not  fair 
play  to  require  them  to  be  like  other 
human  people.  Their  deepest  feeling  is 
for  the  arts;  and,  as  every  one  has  de- 
clared, they  are  farceurs  in  their  trag- 
[26] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
edies,  tragic  in  their  comedies.  They 
prepare  the  last  epigram  in  the  tum- 
bril; they  drown  themselves  with  en- 
thusiasm about  the  alliance  with  Rus- 
sia. In  death  they  are  witty;  in  war  they 
have  poetic  .spasms;  in  love  they  are 
mad. 

The  strangest  of  all  this  is  that  it  is 
not  only  the  Parisians  who  are  the  iti- 
sane  ones  in  Paris ;  the  visitors  are  none 
of  them  in  behaviour  as  elsewhere.  You 
have  only  to  go  there  to  become  as  luna- 
tic as  the  rest.  Many  travellers,  when 
they  have  departed,  remember  the 
events  they  have  caused  there  as  a  per- 
son remembers  in  the  morning  what  he 
has  said  and  thought  in  the  moonlight 
of  the  night. 

In  Paris  it  is  moonlight  even  in  the 
[27] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
morning;  and  in  Paris  one  falls  in  love 
even   more   strangely  than   by   moon- 
light. 

It  is  a  place  of  glimpses :  a  veil  flutter- 
ing from  a  motor-ear,  a  little  lace  hand- 
kerchief fallen  from  a  victoria,  a  figure 
crossing  a  lighted  window,  a  black  hat 
vanishing  in  the  distance  of  the  ave- 
nues of  the  Tuileries.  A  young  man 
writes  a  ballade  and  dreams  over  a  bit 
of  lace.  Was  I  not,  then,  one  of  the  least 
extravagant  of  this  mad  people?  Men 
have  fallen  in  love  with  photographs, 
those  greatest  of  liars;  was  I  so  wild, 
then,  to  adore  this  grey  skirt,  this  small 
shoe,  this  divine  glove,  the  golden- 
honey  voice  —  of  all  in  Paris  the  only 
one  to  pity  and  to  understand  ?  Even  to 
love  the  mystery  of  that  lady  and  to 
[28] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
build  my  dreams  upon  it?  —  to  love 
all  the  more  because  of  the  mystery? 
Mystery  is  the  last  word  and  the  com- 
pleting charm  to  a  young  man's  pas- 
sion. Few  sonnets  have  been  written 
to  wives  whose  matrimony  is  more  than 
five  years  of  age  —  is  it  not  so  ? 


[29] 


CHAPTER  TWO 

HEN  my  hour  was 
finished    and   I   in 
liberty  to  leave  that 
horrible    corner,   I 
pushed  out  of  the 
crowd  and  walked 
down    the    boule- 
vard, my  hat  covering  my  sin,  and  went 
quickly.  To  be  in  love  with  my  mystery, 
[30] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
I  thought,  that  was  a  strange  happiness ! 
It  was  enough.  It  was  romance!  To 
hear  a  voice  which  speaks  two  sentences 
of  pity  and  silver  is  to  have  a  chime  of 
bells  in  the  heart.  But  to  have  a  shaven 
head  is  to  be  a  monk!  And  to  have  a 
shaven  head  with  a  sign  painted  upon 
it  is  to  be  a  pariah.  Alas !  I  was  a  person 
whom  the  Parisians  laughed  at,  not 
with! 

Now  that  at  last  my  martyrdom  was 
concluded,  I  had  some  shuddering,  as 
when  one  places  in  his  mouth  a  morsel 
of  unexpected  flavour.  I  wondered 
where  I  had  found  the  courage  to  bear 
it,  and  how  I  had  resisted  hurling  my- 
self into  the  river,  though,  as  is  known, 
that  is  no  longer  safe,  for  most  of  those 
who  attempt  it  are  at  once  rescued,  ar- 
[31] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
rested,  fined,  and  imprisoned  for  throw- 
ing bodies  into  the  Seine,  which  is  for- 
bidden. 

At  the  theatre  the  frightful  badge  was 
removed  from  my  head-top  and  I  was 
given  three  hundred  francs,  the  price  of 
my  shame,  refusing  an  offer  to  repeat 
the  performance  during  the  following 
week.  To  imagine  such  a  thing  made 
me  a  choking  in  my  throat,  and  I  left 
the  bureau  in  some  sickness.  This  in- 
creased so  much  (as  I  approached  the 
Madeleine,  where  I  wished  to  mount  an 
omnibus)  that  I  entered  a  restaurant  and 
drank  a  small  glass  of  cognac.  Then  I 
called  for  writing-papers  and  wrote  to 
the  good  Mother  Superior  and  my  dear 
little  nieces  at  their  convent.  I  enclosed 
two  hundred  and  fifty  francs,  which 
[32] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
sum  I  had  fallen  behind  in  my  pay- 
ments for  their  education  and  suste- 
nance, and  I  felt  a  moment's  happiness 
that  at  least  for  a  while  I  need  not  fear 
that  my  poor  brother's  orphans  might 
become  objects  of  charity  —  a  fear 
which,  accompanied  by  my  own  hun- 
ger, had  led  me  to  become  the  joke  of 
the  boulevards. 

Feeling  rich  with  my  remaining  fifty 
francs,  I  ordered  the  waiter  to  bring  me 
a  goulasch  and  a  carafe  of  blond  beer, 
after  the  consummation  of  which  I 
spent  an  hour  in  the  reading  of  a  news- 
paper. Can  it  be  credited  that  the  jour- 
nal of  my  perusement  was  the  one 
which  may  be  called  the  North- Amer- 
ican paper  of  the  aristocracies  of 
Europe  ?  Also,  it  contains  some  names 
[33] 


The   Beautiful  Lady 
of  the  people  of  the  United  States  at  the 
hotels  and  elsewhere. 

How  eagerly  I  scanned  those  singular 
columns!  Shall  I  confess  to  what  pur- 
pose? I  read  the  long  lists  of  unconti- 
nental  names  over  and  over,  but  I  lin- 
gered not  at  all  upon  those  like  "  Mu- 
riel," "Hermione,"  "Violet,"  and  "Si- 
byl," nor  over  "Balthurst,"  "Skeffing- 
ton  -  Sligo,"  and  "  Covering- Legge  " ; 
no,  my  search  was  for  the  Sadies  and 
Mamies,  the  Thompsons,  Van  Dusens, 
and  Bradys.  In  that  lies  my  preposter- 
ous secret. 

You  will  see  to  what  infatuation 
those  words  of  pity,  that  sense  of  a 
beautiful  presence,  had  led  me.  To  fall 
in  love  must  one  behold  a  face  ?  Yes ; 
at  thirty.  At  twenty,  when  one  is  some- 
[34] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
thing  of  a  poet  —  No :  it  is  sufficient  to 
see  a  grey  pongee  skirt!  At  fifty,  when 
one  is  a  philosopher  —  No :  it  is  enough 
to  perceive  a  soul!  I  had  done  both;  I 
had  seen  the  skirt;  I  had  perceived  the 
soul!  Therefore,  while  hungry,  I  neg- 
lected my  goulasch  to  read  these  lists  of 
names  of  the  United  States  again  and 
again,  only  that  I  might  have  the  thought 
that  one  of  them  —  though  I  knew  not 
which  —  might  be  this  lady's,  and  that 
in  so  infinitesimal  a  degree  I  had  been 
near  her  again.  Will  it  be  estimated  ex- 
treme imbecility  in  me  when  I  ventured 
the  additional  confession  that  I  felt  a 
great  warmth  and  tenderness  toward 
the  possessors  of  all  these  names,  as 
being,  if  not  herself,  at  least  her  com- 
patriots ? 

[35] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
I  am  now  brought  to  the  admission 
that  before  to-day  I  had  experienced 
some  prejudices  against  the  inhabitants 
of  the  North- American  republic,  though 
not  on  account  of  great  experience  of 
my  own.  A  year  previously  I  had  made 
a  disastrous  excursion  to  Monte  Carlo 
in  the  company  of  a  young  gentleman  of 
London  who  had  been  for  several  weeks 
in  New  York  and  Washington  and  Bos- 
ton, and  appeared  to  know  very  much 
of  the  country.  He  was  never  anything 
but  tired  in  speaking  of  it,  and  told  me  a 
great  amount.  He  said  many  times  that 
in  the  hotels  there  was  never  a  concierge 
or  portier  to  give  you  information  where 
to  discover  the  best  vaudeville;  there 
was  no  concierge  at  all!  In  New  York 
itself,  my  friend  told  me,  a  f acchino,  or 
[36] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
species  of  porter,  or  some  such  good-for- 
nothing,  had  said  to  him,  including  a 
slap  on  the  shoulder,  "Well,  brother, 
did  you  receive  your  delayed  luggage 
correctly  ?"  (In  this  instance  my  studies 
of  the  North-American  idiom  lead  me 
to  believe  that  my  friend  was  intention- 
ally truthful  in  regard  to  the  principal- 
ities, but  mistaken  in  his  observation  of 
detail.)  He  declared  the  recent  willing- 
ness of  the  English  to  take  some  interest 
in  the  United-Statesians  to  be  a  mistake; 
for  they  were  noisy,  without  real  confi- 
dence in  themselves;  they  were  restless 
and  merely  imitative  instead  of  inven- 
tive. He  told  me  that  he  was  not  excep- 
tional; all  Englishmen  had  thought 
similarly  for  fifty  or  sixty  years;  there- 
fore, naturally,  his  opinion  carried  great 
[37] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
weight  with  me.  And  myself,  to  my  as- 
tonishment, I  had  often  seen  parties  of 
these  republicans  become  all  ears  and 
whispers  when  somebody  called  a  prince 
or  a  countess  passed  by.  Their  reverence 
for  age  itself,  in  anything  but  a  horse, 
had  often  surprised  me  by  its  artless- 
ness,  and  of  all  strange  things  in  the 
world,  I  have  heard  them  admire  old 
customs  and  old  families.  It  was  strange 
to  me  to  listen,  when  I  had  believed  that 
their  land  was  the  only  one  where  hap- 
pily no  person  need  worry  to  remember 
who  had  been  his  great-grandfather. 

The  greatest  of  my  own  had  not  saved 
me  from  the  decoration  of  the  past 
week,  yet  he  was  as  much  mine  as  he 
was  Antonio  Caravacioli's;  and  Anto- 
nio, though  impoverished,  had  his 
[38] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
motor-car  and  dined  well,  since  I  hap- 
pened to  see,  in  my  perusal  of  the  jour- 
nal, that  he  had  been  to  dinner  the 
evening  before  at  the  English  Embassy 
with  a  great  company.  "Bravo,  Anto- 
nio !  Find  a  rich  foreign  wife  if  you  can, 
since  you  cannot  do  well  for  yourself  at 
home!"  And  I  could  say  so  honestly, 
without  spite,  for  all  his  hatred  of  me,  — 
because,  until  I  had  paid  my  addition,  I 
was  still  the  possessor  of  fifty  francs ! 

Fifty  francs  will  continue  life  in  the 
body  of  a  judicial  person  a  long  time  in 
Paris,  and  combining  that  knowledge 
and  the  good  goulasch,  I  sought  dili- 
gently for  "Mamies"  and  "Sadies" 
with  a  revived  spirit.  I  found  neither  of 
those  adorable  names  —  in  fact,  only 
two  such  diminutives,  which  are  more 
[39] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
charming  than  our  Italian  ones :  a  Miss 
Jeanie  Archibald  Zip  and  a  Miss  Fannie 
Sooter.  None  of  the  names  was  harmo- 
nious with  the  grey  pongee  —  in  truth, 
most  of  them  were  no  prettier  (however 
less  processional)  than  royal  names.  I 
could  not  please  myself  that  I  had  come 
closer  to  the  rare  lady;  I  must  be  con- 
tented that  the  same  sky  covered  us 
both,  that  the  noise  of  the  same  city 
rang  in  her  ears  in  as  mine. 

Yet  that  was  a  satisfaction,  and  to 
know  that  it  was  true  gave  me  myster- 
ious breathlessness  and  made  me  hear 
fragments  of  old  songs  during  my  walk 
that  night.  I  walked  very  far,  under  the 
trees  of  the  Bois,  where  I  stopped  for  a 
few  moments  to  smoke  a  cigarette  at  one 
of  the  tables  outside,  at  Armenonville. 
[40] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
None  of  the  laughing  women  there 
could  be  the  lady  I  sought;  and  as  my 
refusing  to  command  anything  caused 
the  waiter  uneasiness,  in  spite  of  my 
prosperous  appearance,  I  remained  but 
a  few  moments,  then  trudged  on,  all  the 
long  way  to  the  Cafe  de  Madrid,  where 
also  she  was  not. 

How  did  I  assure  myself  of  this  since 
I  had  not  seen  her  face  ?  I  cannot  tell 
you.  Perhaps  I  should  not  have  known 
her;  but  that  night  I  was  sure  that  I 
should. 

Yes,  as  sure  of  that  as  I  was  sure  that 
she  was  beautiful! 


[41] 


CHAPTER  THREE 

EARLY  the  whole 
of   the  next  day, 
endeavouring    to 
look  preoccupied, 
I     haunted     the 
lobbies  and  vicin- 
ity of  the  most  ex- 
pensive hotels,  unable  to  do  any  other 
thing,  but  ashamed  of  myself  that  I  had 
[42] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
not  returned  to  my  former  task  of  seek- 
ing employment,  although  still  reassured 
by  possession  of  two  louis  and  some 
silver.  I  dined  well  at  a  one-franc  coach- 
man's restaurant,  where  my  elegance 
created  not  the  slightest  surprise,  and  I 
felt  that  I  might  live  in  this  way  indefi- 
nitely. 

However,  dreams  often  conclude  ab- 
ruptly, and  two  louis  always  do,  as  I 
found,  several  days  later,  when,  after 
paying  the  rent  for  my  unspeakable 
lodging  and  lending  twenty  francs  to  a 
poor,  bad  painter,  whom  I  knew  and 
whose  wife  was  ill,  I  found  myself  with 
the  choice  of  obtaining  funds  on  my 
finery  or  not  eating,  either  of  which  I 
was  very  loath  to  do.  It  is  not  essential 
for  me  to  tell  any  person  that  when  you 
[43] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
seek  a  position  it  is  better  that  you  ap- 
pear not  too  greatly  in  need  of  it;  and 
my  former  garments  had  prejudiced 
many  against  me,  I  fear,  because  they 
had  been  patched  by  a  friendly  con- 
cierge. Pantaloons  suffer  as  terribly  as 
do  antiques  from  too  obvious  restora- 
tions; and  while  I  was  only  grateful  to 
the  good  woman's  needle  (except  upon 
one  occasion  when  she  forgot  to  remove 
it),  my  costume  had  reached,  at  last, 
great  sympathies  for  the  shade  of  Prax- 
iteles, feeling  the  same  melancholy  over 
original  intentions  so  far  misrepresented 
by  renewals. 

Therefore  1  determined  to  preserve 

my  fineries  to  the  uttermost;  and  it  was 

fortunate  that  I  did  so;  because,  after 

dining,  for  three  nights  upon  nothing 

[44] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
but  looking  out  of  my  window,  the 
fourth  morning  brought  me -a  letter  from 
my  English  friend.  I  had  written  to  him, 
asking  if  he  knew  of  any  people  who 
wished  to  pay  a  salary  to  a  young  man 
who  knew  how  to  do  nothing.  I  place  his 
reply  in  direct  annexation : 

"  HENRIETTA  STREET,  CAVENDISH  SQUARE,  May  14. 

"  MY  DEAR  ANSOLINI,  —  Why  haven't 
you  made  some  of  your  relatives  do 
something?  I  understand  that  they  do 
not  like  you;  neither  do  my  own,  but 
after  our  crupper  at  Monte  Carlo  what 
could  mine  do,  except  provide?  If  a 
few  pounds  (precious  few,  I  fear!)  be 
of  any  service  to  you,  let  me  know.  In 
the  mean  time,  if  you  are  serious  about 
a  position,  I  may,  preposterously 
[45] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
enough,  set  you  in  the  way  of  it.  There 
is  an  old  thundering  Yankee  here, 
whom  I  met  in  the  States,  and  who  be- 
lieved me  a  god  because  I  am  the 
nephew  of  my  awful  uncle,  for  whose 
career  he  has  ever  had,  it  appears,  a  life- 
long admiration,  sir!  Now,  by  chance, 
meeting  this  person  in  the  street,  it  de- 
veloped that  he  has  need  of  a  man,  pre- 
cisely such  a  one  as  you  are  not :  a  sober, 
tutorish,  middle-aged,  dissenting  par- 
son, to  trot  about  the  Continent  tied  to 
a  dancing  bear.  It  is  the  old  gentleman's 
cub,  who  is  a  species  of  Caliban  in  fine 
linen,  and  who  has  taken  a  few  too 
many  liberties  in  the  land  of  the  free.  In 
fact,  I  believe  he  is  much  a  youth  of  my 
own  kind  with  similar  admiration  for 
baccarat  and  good  cellars.  His  father 
[46] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
must  return  at  once,  and  has  decided 
(the  cub's  native  heath  angl  friends  be- 
ing too  wild)  to  leave  him  in  charge  of  a 
proper  guide,  philosopher,  courier, 
chaplain,  and  friend,  if  such  can  be 
found,  the  same  required  to  travel  with 
the  cub  and  keep  him  out  of  mischief.  I 
thought  of  your  letter  directly,  and  I 
have  given  you  the  most  tremendous 
recommendation  -  -  part  of  it  quite  true, 
I  suspect,  though  I  am  not  a  judge  of 
learning.  I  explained,  however,  that  you 
are  a  master  of  languages,  of  elegant 
though  subdued  deportment,  and  I  ex- 
tolled at  length  your  saintly  habits.  Al- 
together, I  fear  there  may  have  been  too 
much  of  the  virtuoso  in  my  interpreta- 
tion of  you;  few  would  have  recognized 
from  it  the  gentleman  who  closed  a  table 
[47] 


The   Beautiful   Lady 

at  Monte  Carlo  and  afterwards  was 
closed  himself  in  the  handsome  and 
spectacular  fashion  I  remember  with 
both  delight  and  regret.  Briefly,  I  lied 
like  a  master.  He  almost  had  me  in  the 
matter  of  your  age;  it  was  important 
that  you  should  be  middle-aged.  I 
swore  that  you  were  at  least  thirty- 
eight,  but,  owing  to  exemplary  habits, 
looked  very  much  younger.  The  cub 
himself  is  twenty-four. 

"  Hence,  if  you  are  really  serious  and 
determined  not  to  appeal  to  your  people, 
call  at  once  upon  Mr.  Lambert  R.  Poor, 
at  the  Hotel  d'lena.  He  is  the  father, 
and  the  cub  is  with  him.  The  elder  Yan- 
kee is  primed  with  my  praises  of  you, 
and  must  engage  some  one  at  once,  as  he 
sails  in  a  day  or  two.  Go --with  my 
[48] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
blessing,  an  air  of  piety,  and  as  much 
age  as  you  can  assume.  When  the  father 
has  departed,  throw  the  cub  into  the 
Seine,  but  preserve  his  pocket-book, 
and  we  shall  have  another  go  at  those 
infernal  tables.  Vale!  J.  G.  S." 

I  found  myself  smiling  —  I  fear  mis- 
erably —  over  this  kind  letter,  espe- 
cially at  the  wonder  of  my  friend  that  I 
had  not  appealed  to  my  relatives.  The 
only  ones  who  would  have  liked  to  help 
me,  if  they  had  known  I  needed  some- 
thing, were  my  two  little  nieces  who 
were  in  my  own  care;  because  my 
father,  being  but  a  poet,  had  no  family, 
and  my  mother  had  lost  hers,  even  her 
eldest  son,  by  marrying  my  father.  After 
that  they  would  have  nothing  to  do  with 
[49] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
her,  nor  were  they  asked.  That  rascally 
old  Antonio  was  now  the  head  of  all  the 
Caravacioli,  as  was  I  of  my  own  outcast 
branch  of  our  house  —  that  is,  of  my 
two  little  nieces  and  myself.  It  was 
partly  of  these  poor  infants  I  had 
thought  when  I  took  what  was  left  of 
my  small  inheritance  to  Monte  Carlo, 
hoping,  since  I  seemed  to  be  incapable 
of  increasing  it  in  any  other  way,  that 
number  seventeen  and  black  would 
hand  me  over  a  fortune  as  a  waiter 
does  wine.  Alas!  Luck  is  not  always 
a  fool's  servant,  and  the  kind  of  for- 
tune she  handed  me  was  of  that  spe- 
cies the  waiter  brings  you  in  the  other 
bottle  of  champagne,  the  gold  of  a 
bubbling  brain,  lasting  an  hour.  After 
this  there  is  always  something  evil 
[50] 


The   Beautiful  Lady 
to  one's   head,    and    mine,    alas!   was 
shaved.  • 

Half  an  hour  after  I  had  read  the  let- 
ter, the  little  paper-flower  makers  in  the 
attic  window  across  from  mine  may 
have  seen  me  shaving  it  —  without 
pleasure  —  again.  What  else  was  I  to 
do  ?  I  could  not  well  expect  to  be  given 
the  guardianship  of  an  erring  young 
man  if  I  presented  myself  to  his  parent 
as  a  gentleman  who  had  been  sitting  at 
the  Cafe  de  la  Paix  with  his  head  paint- 
ed. I  could  not  wear  my  hat  through  the 
interview.  I  could  not  exhibit  the  thick 
five  days'  stubble,  to  appear  in  contrast 
with  the  heavy  fringe  that  had  been 
spared;  —  I  could  not  trim  the  fringe 
to  the  shortness  of  the  stubble ;  I  should 
have  looked  like  Pierrot.  I  had  only, 
[51] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
then,  to  remain  bald,  and,  if  I  obtained 
the  post,  to  shave  in  secret  —  a  harm- 
less and  mournful  imposition. 

It  was  well  for  me  that  I  came  to  this 
determination.  I  believe  it  was  the  ap- 
pearance of  maturity  which  my  head 
and  dining  upon  thoughts  lent  me,  as 
much  as  my  friend's  praises,  which  cre- 
ated my  success  with  the  amiable  Mr. 
Lambert  R.  Poor.  I  witness  that  my 
visit  to  him  provided  one  of  the  most 
astonishing  interviews  of  my  life.  He 
was  an  instance  of  those  strange  beings 
of  the  Western  republic,  at  whom  we  are 
perhaps  too  prone  to  pass  from  one  of 
ourselves  to  another  the  secret  smile, 
because  of  some  little  imperfections  of 
manner.  It  is  a  type  which  has  grown 
more  and  more  familiar  to  us,  yet  never 
[52] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
less  strange:  the  man  in  costly  but  se- 
vere costume,  big,  with  a  necessary  great 
waistcoat,  not  noticing  the  loudness  of 
his  own  voice;  as  ignorant  of  the  thou- 
sand tiny  things  which  we  observe  and 
feel  as  he  would  be  careless  of  them 
(except  for  his  wife)  if  he  knew.  We 
laugh  at  him,  sometimes  even  to  his 
face,  and  he  does  not  perceive  it.  We  are 
a  little  afraid  that  he  is  too  large  to  see 
it;  hence  too  large  for  us  to  comprehend, 
and  in  spite  of  our  laughter  we  are  al- 
ways conscious  of  a  force  —  yes,  of  a 
presence !  We  jeer  slyly,  but  we  respect, 
fear  a  little,  and  would  trust. 

Such  was  my  patron.  He  met  me  with 
a  kind  greeting,  looked  at  me  very  ear- 
nestly, but  smiling  as  if  he  understood 
my  good  intentions,  as  one  understands 
[53] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
the  friendliness  of  a  capering  poodle, 
yet  in  such  a  way  that  I  could  not  feel 
resentment,  for  I  could  see  that  he 
looked  at  almost  every  one  in  the  same 
fashion. 

My  friend  had  done  wonders  for  me ; 
and  I  made  the  best  account  of  myself 
that  I  could,  so  that  within  half  an  hour 
it  was  arranged  that  I  should  take 
charge  of  his  son,  with  an  honourarium 
which  gave  me  great  rejoicing  for  my 
nieces  and  my  accumulated  appetite. 

"I  think  I  can  pick  men,"  he  said, 
"and  I  think  that  you  are  the  man  I 
want.  You're  old  enough  and  you've 
seen  enough,  and  you  know  enough  to 
keep  one  fool  boy  in  order  for  six 
months." 

So  frankly  he  spoke  of  his  son,  yet  not 
[54] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
without  affection  and  confidence.  Be- 
fore I  left,  he  sent  for  the  youth  himself, 
Lambert  R.  Poor,  Jr.,  —  not  at  all  a 
Caliban,  but  a  most  excellent-appear- 
ing, tall  gentleman,  of  astonishingly 
meek  countenance.  He  gave  me  a  sad, 
slow  look  from  his  blue  eyes  at  first; 
then  with  a  brightening  smile  he  gently 
shook  my  hand,  murmuring  that  he  was 
very  glad  in  the  prospect  of  knowing 
me  better;  after  which  the  parent  de- 
fined before  him,  with  singular  elabora- 
tion, my  duties.  I  was  to  correct  all 
things  in  his  behaviour  which  I  consid- 
ered improper  or  absurd.  I  was  to  dic- 
tate the  line  of  travel,  to  have  a  restrain- 
ing influence  upon  expenditures;  in 
brief,  to  control  the  young  man  as  a  gov- 
erness does  a  child. 

[55] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
To  all  of  his  parent's  instructions 
Poor  Jr.  returned  a  dutiful  nod  and  ex- 
pressed perfect  acquiescence.  The  fol- 
lowing day  the  elder  sailed  from  Cher- 
bourg, and  I  took  up  my  quarters  with 
the  son. 


[56] 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

T  is  with  the  most 
extreme  mortifica- 
tion that  I  record 
my  ensuing  experi- 
ences,   for    I    felt 
that    I    could    not 
honourably  accept 
my  salary  without  earning  it  by  carry- 
ing out  the  parent  Poor's  wishes.  That 
[57] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
first  morning  I  endeavoured  to  direct 
my  pupil's  steps  toward  the  Musee 
de  Cluny,  with  the  purpose  of  inciting 
him  to  instructive  study;  but  in  the 
mildest,  yet  most  immovable  manner, 
he  proposed  Longchamps  and  the  races 
as  a  substitute,  to  conclude  with  dinner 
at  La  Cascade  and  supper  at  Maxim's 
or  the  Cafe  Blanche,  in  case  we  should 
meet  engaging  company.  I  ventured  the 
vainest  efforts  to  reason  with  him,  mak- 
ing for  myself  a  very  uncomfortable 
breakfast,  though  without  effect  upon 
him  of  any  visibility.  His  air  was  unin- 
terruptedly mild  and  modest;  he  rarely 
lifted  his  eyes,  but  to  my  most  earnest 
argument  replied  only  by  ordering  more 
eggs  and  saying  in  a  chastened  voice: 
"Oh  no;  it  is  always  best  to  begin 
[58] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
school  with  a  vacation.  To  Longchamps 
-we!" 

I  should  say  at  once  that  through  this 
young  man  I  soon  became  an  amateur 
of  the  remarkable  North- American  idi- 
oms, of  humour  and  incomparable  brev- 
ities often  more  interesting  than  those 
evolved  by  the  thirteen  or  more  dialects 
of  my  own  Naples.  Even  at  our  first 
breakfast  I  began  to  catch  lucid 
glimpses  of  the  intention  in  many  of  his 
almost  incomprehensible  statements.  I 
was  able,  even,  to  penetrate  his  meaning 
when  he  said  that  although  he  was 
"strong  for  aged  parent,"  he  himself 
had  suffered  much  anguish  from  over- 
work of  the  "earnest  youth  racquette" 
in  his  late  travels,  and  now  desired  to 
"create  considerable  trouble  for  Paris." 
[59] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
Naturally,  I  did  not  wish  to  begin  by 
antagonizing  my  pupil  —  an  estrange- 
ment at  the  commencement  would  only 
lead  to  his  deceiving  me,  or  a  continued 
quarrel,  in  which  case  I  should  be  of  no 
service  to  my  kind  patron,  so  that  after 
a  strained  interval  I  considered  it  best 
to  surrender. 

We  went  to  Longchamps. 
That  was  my  first  mistake;  the  second 
was  to  yield  to  him  concerning  the  lat- 
ter part  of  his  programme;  but  opposi- 
tion to  Mr.  Poor  Jr.  had  a  curious  effect 
of  inutility.  He  had  not  in  the  least 
the  air  of  obstinacy,  —  nothing  could 
have  been  less  like  rudeness ;  he  neither 
frowned  nor  smiled;  no,  he  did  not 
seem  even  to  be  insisting;  on  the  con- 
trary, never  have  I  beheld  a  milder 
[60] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
countenance,  nor  heard  a  pleas anter 
voice;  yet  the  young  man -was  so  com- 
pletely baffling  in  his  mysterious  way 
that  I  considered  him  unique  to  my 
experience. 

Thus,  when  I  urged  him  not  to  place 
large  wagers  in  the  pesage,  his  whisper- 
ed reply  was  strange  and  simple  — 
"Watch  me!"  This  he  conclusively  said 
as  he  deposited  another  thousand-franc 
note,  which,  within  a  few  moments,  ac- 
crued to  the  French  government. 

Longchamps  was  but  the  beginning 
of  a  series  of  days  and  nights  which  wore 
upon  my  constitution  —  not  indeed 
with  the  intensity  of  mortification  which 
my  former  conspicuosity  had  engend- 
ered, yet  my  sorrows  were  stringent.  It 
is  true  that  I  had  been,  since  the  age  of 
[61] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
seventeen,  no  stranger  to  the  gaieties 
and  dissipations  afforded  by  the  capitals 
of  Europe;  I  may  say  I  had  exhausted 
these,  yet  always  with  some  degree  of 
quiet,  including  intervals  of  repose.  I 
was  tired  of  all  the  great  foolishnesses 
of  youth,  and  had  thought  myself  done 
with  them.  Now  I  found  myself  plunged 
into  more  uproarious  waters  than  I  had 
ever  known — I,  who  had  hoped  to  begin 
a  life  of  usefulness  and  peace,  was  forc- 
ed to  dwell  in  the  midst  of  a  riot,  pursu- 
ing my  extraordinary  charge. 

There  is  no  need  that  I  should  de- 
scribe those  days  and  nights.  They  re- 
main in  my  memory  as  a  confusion  of 
bad  music,  crowds,  motor-cars  and 
champagne  of  which  Poor  Jr.  was  a  dis- 
tributing centre.  He  could  never  be  per- 
[62] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
suaded  to  the  Louvre,  the  Carnavalet, 
or  the  Luxembourg;  in  truth,  he  seldom 
rose  in  time  to  reach  the  museums,  for 
they  usually  close  at  four  in  the  after- 
noon. Always  with  the  same  inscrutable 
meekness  of  countenance,  each  night  he 
methodically  danced  the  cake-walk  at 
Maxim's  or  one  of  the  Montmartre  res- 
taurants, to  the  cheers  of  acquaintances 
of  many  nationalities,  to  whom  he  of- 
fered libations  with  prodigal  enormity. 
He  carried  with  him,  about  the  boule- 
vards at  night,  in  the  highly  powerful 
car  he  had  hired,  large  parties  of  strange 
people,  who  would  loudly  sing  airs  from 
the  Folie-Rouge  (to  my  unhappy  shud- 
derings)  all  the  way  from  the  fatiguing 
Bal  Bullier  to  the  Cafe  de  Paris,  where 
the  waiters  soon  became  affluent. 
[63] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
And  how  many  of  those  gaily  dressed 
and  smiling  ladies  whose  bright  eyes 
meet  yours  on  the  veranda  of  the 
Theatre  Marigny  were  provided  with 
excessive  suppers  and  souvenir  fans  by 
the  inexhaustible  Poor  Jr.!  He  left  a 
trail  of  pink  hundred-franc  notes  be- 
hind him,  like  a  running  boy  dropping 
paper  in  the  English  game;  and  he  kept 
showers  of  gold  louis  dancing  in  the  air 
about  him,  so  that  when  we  entered  the 
various  cafes  or  "American  bars"  a 
cheer  (not  vocal  but  to  me  of  perfect 
audibility)  went  up  from  the  hungry  and 
thirsty  and  borrowing,  and  from  the  at- 
tendants. Ah,  how  tired  I  was  of  it, 
and  how  I  endeavoured  to  discover  a 
means  to  draw  him  to  the  museums,  and 
to  Notre  Dame  and  the  Pantheon! 
[64] 


He  carried  with  him  in  the  powerful  car  he  had  hired, 
large  parties  of  strange  people 


DRAWN  BY  BLENDON   CAMPBELL 


autiful    Lady 

10 w  many  of  those  gaily  dressed 
/  smiling  ladies  v  kt  eyes 

meet    yours    on    the    vt  of    the 

Theatre  Marigny  were  provided  with 
excessive  suppers  and  souvenir  fans  by 
the  inexhaustible  Poor  Jr.!  He  left  a 
trail  of  hundred-franc  notes  be- 

hind him,  likr  a  running  boy  dropping 
paper  in  the  English  game;  and  he  kept 
she*-  !  louis  dancing  in  the  air 

we  entered  the 
a 

t'he  perfect 

audibility)  went  up  from  the  hungry  and 
thirsty  and  borrowing,  and  from  the  at- 
tendants. Ah,  how  tired  I  was  of  it, 
and  how  I  endeavoured  to  discover  a 
means  to  draw  him  to  the  museums,  and 
to  Notre  Dam<  Pantheon! 


\o 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
And  how  many  times  did  I  unwill- 
ingly find  myself  in  the  too  enlivening 
company  of  those  pretty  supper-girls, 
and  what  jokings  upon  his  head-top  did 
the  poor  bald  gentleman  not  undergo 
from  those  same  demoiselles  with  the 
bright  eyes,  the  wonderful  hats,  and  the 
fluffy  dresses! 

How  of  ten  among  those  gay  people  did 
I  find  myself  sadly  dreaming  of  that  grey 
pongee  skirt  and  the  beautiful  heart  that 
had  understood !  Should  I  ever  see  that 
lady?  Not,  I  knew,  alas!  in  the  whirl 
about  Poor  Jr. !  As  soon  look  for  a  nun 
at  the  Cafe  Blanche! 

For  some  reason  I  came  to  be  per- 
suaded that  she  had  left  Paris,  that  she 
had  gone  away;  and  I  pictured  her  —  a 
little  despairingly  —  on  the  borders  of 
[65] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
Lucerne,  with  the  white  Alps  in  the 
sky  above  her, —  or  perhaps  listening  to 
the  evening  songs  on  the  Grand  Canal, 
and  I  would  try  to  feel  the  little  rocking 
of  her  gondola,  making  myself  dream 
that  I  sat  at  her  feet.  Or  I  could  see 
the  grey  flicker  of  the  pongee  skirt  in 
the  twilight  distance  of  cathedral  aisles 
with  a  chant  sounding  from  a  chapel; 
and,  so  dreaming,  I  would  start  spas- 
modically, to  hear  the  red-coated  orches- 
tra of  a  cafe  blare  out  into  "Bedelia," 
and  awake  to  the  laughter  and  rouge 
and  blague  which  that  dear  pongee  had 
helped  me  for  a  moment  to  forget! 

To  all  places  Poor  Jr.,  though  never 

unkindly,  dragged  me  with  him,  even  to 

make  the  balloon  ascent  at  the  Porte 

Maillot  on  a  windy  evening.     Without 

[66] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
embarrassment  I  confess  that  I  was  ter- 
rified, that  I  clung  to  the  ropes  with  a 
clutch  which  frayed  my  gloves,  while 
Poor  Jr.  leaned  back  against  the  side  of 
the  basket  and  gazed  upward  at  the 
great  swaying  ball,  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  humming  the  strange  bal- 
lad that  was  his  favourite  musical  com- 
position : 

"The  prettiest  girl  I  ever  saw 
Was  sipping  cider  through  a  straw-aw-haw!" 

In  that  horrifying  basket,  scrambling 
for  a  foothold  while  it  swung  through 
arcs  that  were  gulfs,  I  believed  that  my 
sorrows  approached  a  sudden  conclu- 
sion, but  finding  myself  again  upon  the 
secure  earth,  I  decided  to  come  to  an 
understanding  with  the  young  man. 
[67]  ' 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
Accordingly,  on  the  following  mor- 
ning, I  entered  his  apartment  and  ad- 
dressed myself  to  Poor  Jr.  as  severely  as 
I  could  (for,  truthfully,  in  all  his  follies  I 
had  found  no  ugliness  in  his  spirit  - 
only  a  good-natured  and  inscrutable  de- 
sire of  wild  amusement)  reminding  him 
of  the  authority  his  father  had  deputed 
to  me,  and  having  the  venturesomeness 
to  hint  that  the  son  should  show  some 
respect  to  my  superior  age. 

To  my  consternation  he  replied  by 
inquiring  if  I  had  shaved  my  head  as  yet 
that  morning.  I  could  only  drop  in  a 
chair,  stammering  to  know  what  he 
meant. 

"Didn't  you  suppose  I  knew?"  he 
asked,  elevating  himself  slightly  on  his 
elbow  from  the  pillow.     "Three  weeks 
[68] 


ff 

p8N-v^ 


To  my   consternation   he   replied   by  inquiring  if   I   had 
shaved  my  head  as  yet  that  morning 


DRAWN   BY   BLENDON    CAMPBELL, 


Beam 

gly,  on  mor- 

entered  hi  it  and  ad- 

myself  to  Poo 
uld  (for,  truthfully,  ih 
had  found  no  ugliness  in  his  Sj. 
only  a  good-natured  and  inscrutable 
sire  of  wild  amusement)  reminding  him 
of  the  authority  his  father  had  deputed 
to  me,  and  having  the  venturesomeness 
to  hint  that  the  son  should  sho 
respect  to 

1  o 

inquin «  my  head  as  yet 

that  morning.  I  could  only  drop  in  a 
chair,  stammering  to  know  what  he 
meant. 

"Didn't  you  suppose  I  knew?"  he 
asked,  elevating  himself  slightly  on  his 
elbow  from  the  pillow.     "Three  weeks 
[68] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
ago  I  left  my  aged  parent  in  London  and 
ran  over  here  for  a  day.  I  saw  you  at  the 
Cafe  de  la  Paix,  and  even  then  I  knew 
that  it  was  shaved,  not  naturally  bald. 
When  you  came  here  I  recognized  you 
like  a  shot,  and  that  was  why  I  was  glad 
to  accept  you  as  a  guardian.  I've  en- 
joyed myself  considerably  of  late,  and 
you've  been  the  best  part  of  it, —  I 
think  you  are  a  wonderation!  I  wouldn't 
have  any  other  governess  for  the  world, 
but  you  surpass  the  orchestra  when  you 
beg  me  to  respect  your  years !  I  will  bet 
you  four  dollars  to  a  lead  franc  piece 
that  you  are  younger  than  I  am!" 

Imagine  the  completeness  of  my  dis- 
may! Although  he  spoke  in  tones  the 
most  genial,  and  without  unkindness,  I 
felt  myself  a  man  of  tatters  before  him, 
[69] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
ashamed  to  have  him  know  my  sorry  se- 
cret, hopeless  to  see  all  chance  of  author- 
ity over  him  gone  at  once,  and  with  it 
my  opportunity  to  earn  a  salary  so  gen- 
erous, for  if  I  could  continue  to  be  but 
an  amusement  to  him  and  only  part  of 
his  deception  of  Lambert  R.  Poor,  my 
sense  of  honour  must  be  fit  for  the  guil- 
lotine indeed. 

I  had  a  little  struggle  with  myself,  and 
I  think  I  must  have  wiped  some 
amounts  of  the  cold  perspiration  from 
my  absurd  head  before  I  was  able  to 
make  an  answer.  It  may  be  seen  what  a 
coward  I  was,  and  how  I  feared  to  begin 
again  that  search  for  employment.  At 
last,  however,  I  was  in  self-control,  so 
that  I  might  speak  without  being  afraid 
that  my  voice  would  shake. 
[70] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
"I  am  sorry,"  I  said.  "It  seemed  to 
me  that  my  deception  would  not  cause 
any  harm,  and  that  I  might  be  useful  in 
spite  of  it  —  enough  to  earn  my  living. 
It  was  on  account  of  my  being  very  poor ; 
and  there  are  two  little  children  I  must 
take  care  of. —  Well,  at  least,  it  is  over 
now.  I  have  had  great  shame,  but  I 
must  not  have  greater. " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  asked  me, 
rather  sharply. 

"I  will  leave  immediately,"  I  said, 
going  to  the  door.  "  Since  I  am  no  more 
than  a  joke,  I  can  be  of  no  service  to 
your  father  or  to  you ;  but  you  must  not 
think  that  I  am  so  unreasonable  as  to  be 
angry  with  you.  A  man  whom  you  have 
beheld  reduced  to  what  I  was,  at  the 
Cafe  de  la  Paix,  is  surely  a  joke  to  the 
[71] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
whole  world !  I  will  write  to  your  father 
before  I  leave  the  hotel  and  explain  that 
I  feel  myself  unqualified  - 

"You're  going  to  write  to  him  why 
you  give  it  up!"  he  exclaimed. 

"I  shall  make  no  report  of  espion- 
age," I  answered,  with,  perhaps,  some 
bitterness,  "and  I  will  leave  the  letter 
for  you  to  read  and  to  send,  of  yourself. 
It  shall  only  tell  him  that  as  a  man  of 
honour  I  cannot  keep  a  position  for 
which  I  have  no  qualification." 

I  was  going  to  open  the  door,  bidding 
him  adieu,  when  he  called  out  to  me. 

"  Look  here ! "  he  said,  and  he  jumped 
out  of  bed  in  his  pajamas  and  came 
quickly,  and  held  out  his  hand.  "Look 
here,  Ansolini,  don't  take  it  that  way.  I 
know  you've  had  pretty  hard  times,  and 
[72] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
if  you'll  stay,  I'll  get  good.  I'll  go  to  the 
Louvre  with  you  this  afternoon;  we'll 
dine  at  one  of  the  Duval  restaurants, 
and  go  to  that  new  religious  tragedy 
afterwards.  If  you  like,  we'll  leave  Paris 
to-morrow.  There's  a  little  too  much 
movement  here,  maybe.  For  God's 
sake  let  your  hair  grow,  and  we'll  go 
down  to  Italy  and  study  bones  and  ruins 
and  delight  the  aged  parent!  —  It's  all 
right,  isn't  it?" 

I  shook  the  hand  of  that  kind  Poor  Jr. 
with  a  feeling  in  my  heart  that  kept  me 
from  saying  how  greatly  I  thanked  him 
—  and  I  was  sure  that  I  could  do  any- 
thing for  him  in  the  world! 


[73] 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

HREE    days    later 
saw     us     on     the 
pretty     waters     of 
Lake     Leman,    in 
the  bright  weather 
when  Mont  Blanc 
heaves     his     great 
bare  shoulder  of  ice  miles  into  the  blue 
sky,   with   no   mist-cloak    about    him. 
[74] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
Sailing  that  lake  in  the  cool  morning, 
what  a  contrast  to  the  champagne  houp- 
la  nights  of  Paris!  And  how  docile  was 
my  pupil!  He  suffered  me  to  lead  him 
through  the  Castle  of  Chillon  like  a 
new-born  lamb,  and  even  would  not 
play  the  little  horses  in  the  Kursaal  at 
Geneva,  although,  perhaps,  that  was 
because  the  stakes  were  not  high 
enough  to  interest  him.  He  was  nearly 
always  silent,  and,  from  the  moment  of 
our  departure  from  Paris,  had  fallen  into 
dreamfulness,  such  as  would  come  over 
myself  at  the  thought  of  the  beautiful 
lady.  It  touched  my  heart  to  find  how 
he  was  ready  with  acquiescence  to  the 
slightest  suggestion  of  mine,  and,  if 
it  had  been  the  season,  I  am  almost 
credulous  that  I  could  have  con- 
[75] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
ducted  him  to  Baireuth  to  hear  Parsi- 
fal! 

There  were  times  when  his  mood  of 
gentle  sorrow  was  so  like  mine  that  I 
wondered  if  he,  too,  knew  a  grey  pon- 
gee skirt.  I  wondered  over  this  so  much, 
and  so  marvellingly,  also,  because  of  the 
change  in  him,  that  at  last  I  asked  him. 

We  had  gone  to  Lucerne ;  it  was  clear 
moonlight,  and  we  smoked  on  our  little 
balcony  at  the  Schweitzerhof,  puffing 
our  small  clouds  in  the  enormous  face 
of  the  strangest  panorama  of  the  world, 
that  august  disturbation  of  the  earth  by 
gods  in  battle,  left  to  be  a  land  of  tragic 
fables  since  before  Pilate  was  there,  and 
remaining  the  same  after  William  Tell 
was  not.  I  sat  looking  up  at  the  moun- 
tains, and  he  leaned  on  the  rail,  looking 
[76] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
down  at  the  lake.  Somewhere  a  woman 
was  singing  from  Pagliacci*  and  I  slow- 
ly arrived  at  a  consciousness  that  I  had 
sighed  aloud  once  or  twice,  not  so  much 
sadly,  as  of  longing  to  see  that  lady,  and 
that  my  companion  had  permitted  sim- 
ilar sounds  to  escape  him,  but  more 
mournfully.  It  was  then  that  I  asked 
him,  in  earnestness,  yet  with  the  man- 
ner of  making  a  joke,  if  he  did  not 
think  often  of  some  one  in  North  Am- 
erica. 

"Do  you  believe  that  could  be,  and  I 
making  the  disturbance  I  did  in  Paris  ?" 
he  returned. 

'Yes,"  I  told  him,  "if  you  are  trying 
to  forget  her." 

"I  should  think  it  might  look  more 
as   if   I   were   trying  to  forget   that   I 
[77] 


The   Beautiful   Lady 
wasn't  good  enough  for  her  and  that  she 
knew  it!" 

He  spoke  in  a  voice  which  he  would 
have  made  full  of  ease  —  "off-hand," 
as  they  say;  but  he  failed  to  do  so. 

"  That  was  the  case  ?"  I  pressed  him, 
you  see,  but  smilingly. 

"Looks  a  good  deal  like  it,"  he  re- 
plied, smoking  much  at  once. 

"  So  ?  But  that  is  good  for  you,  my 
friend!" 

"Probably."  He  paused,  smoking 
still  more,  and  then  said,  "  It's  a  benefit 
I  could  get  on  just  as  well  without." 

"She  is  in  North  America?" 

"No;  over  here." 

"Ah!  Then  we  will  go  where  she  is. 
That  will  be  even  better  for  you! 
Where  is  she?" 

[78] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
"I  don't  know.  She  asked  me  not  to 
follow    her.    Somebody    eke    is    doing 
that." 

The  young  man's  voice  was  steady, 
and  his  face,  as  usual,  showed  no  emo- 
tion, but  I  should  have  been  an  Italian 
for  nothing  had  I  not  understood  quick- 
ly. So  I  waited  for  a  little  while,  then 
spoke  of  old  Pilatus  out  there  in  the  sky, 
and  we  went  to  bed  very  late,  for  it  was 
our  last  night  in  Lucerne. 

Two  days  later  we  roared  our  way  out 
of  the  gloomy  St.  Gotthard  and  wound 
down  the  pass,  out  into  the  sunshine  of 
Italy,  into  that  broad  plain  of  mul- 
berries where  the  silkworms  weave  to 
enrich  the  proud  Milanese.  Ah,  those 
Milanese!  They  are  like  the  people  of 
Turin,  and  look  down  upon  us  of  Na- 
[79] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
pies ;  they  find  us  only  amusing,  because 
our  minds  and  movements  are  too  quick 
for  them  to  understand.  I  have  no  re- 
spect for  the  Milanese,  except  for  three 
things :  they  have  a  cathedral,  a  picture, 
and  a  dead  man. 

We  came  to  our  hotel  in  the  soft  twi- 
light, with  the  air  so  balmy  one  wished 
to  rise  and  float  in  it.  This  was  the  hour 
for  the  Cathedral;  therefore,  leaving 
Leonardo  and  his  fresco  for  the  to-mor- 
row, I  conducted  my  uncomplaining 
ward  forth,  and  through  that  big  arcade 
of  which  the  people  are  so  proud,  to  the 
Duomo.  Poor  Jr.  showed  few  signs  of 
life  as  we  stood  before  that  immense- 
ness  ;  he  said  patiently  that  it  resembled 
the  postals,  and  followed  me  inside  the 
portals  with  languor. 
[80] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
It  was  all  grey  hollowness  in  the  vast 
place.  The  windows  showed  not  any 
colour  nor  light;  the  splendid  pillars 
soared  up  into  the  air  and  disappeared 
as  if  they  mounted  to  heights  of  invisi- 
bility in  the  sky  at  night.  Very  far  away, 
at  the  other  end  of  the  church  it  seemed, 
one  lamp  was  burning,  high  over  the 
transept.  One  could  not  see  the  chains  of 
support  nor  the  roof  above  it ;  it  seemed 
a  great  star,  but  so  much  all  alone.  We 
walked  down  the  long  aisle  to  stand 
nearer  to  it,  the  darkness  growing 
deeper  as  we  advanced.  When  we  came 
almost  beneath,  both  of  us  gazing  up- 
ward, my  companion  unwittingly  stum- 
bled against  a  lady  who  was  standing 
silently  looking  up  at  this  light,  and  who 
had  failed  to  notice  our  approach.  The 
[81] 


The   Beautiful   Lady 
contact  was  severe  enough  to  dislodge 
from  her  hand  her  folded  parasol,  for 
which  I  began  to  grope. 

There  was  a  hurried  sentence  of  ex- 
cusation  from  Poor  Jr.,  followed  by  mo- 
ments of  silence  before  she  replied. 
Then  I  heard  her  voice  in  startled  ex- 
clamation : 

"Rufus,  it  is  never  you?" 

He  called  out,  almost  loudly, 

"Alice!" 

Then  I  knew  that  it  was  the  second 
time  I  had  lifted  a  parasol  from  the 
ground  for  the  lady  of  the  grey  pongee 
and  did  not  see  her  face;  but  this  time 
I  placed  it  in  her  own  hand;  for  my 
head  bore  no  shame  upon  it  now. 

In  the  surprise  of  encountering  Poor 
Jr.  I  do  not  think  she  noticed  that  she 
[82] 


contact  was  Severe  enough  to  dislodge  from  her  hand 
her  folded  parasol,  for  which  I  began  to  grope 


DRAWN   BY   BLENDON   CAMPBELL, 


was  sever  Hslodge 

from  her  hand  her  i  for 

which  I  began  to  grope. 

There  was  a  hurried  sent 
cusation  from  Poor  Jr.,  folio^ 
ments    of   silence    before    she    rep: 
Then  I  heard  her  voice  in  startled  ex- 

;  you'?99 
II 

i  from  the 

lady  of  the  grey  pongee 
and  did  not  see  her  face;  but  this  time 
I  placed  it  in  her  own  hand;  for  my 
head  bore  no  shame  upon  it  now. 

In  the  surprise  of  encountering  Poor 
Jr.  I  do  not  think  she  noticed  that  she 
[82] 

VwnA  tsA  «\ot\  a^fookVb  oi  A^MONS  s-msfc  %»w  ioftifloo  aAT 


woawaja  YH 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
took  the  parasol  or  was  conscious  of  my 
presence,  and  it  was  but  too  secure  that 
my  young  friend  had  forgotten  that  I 
lived.  I  think,  in  truth,  I  should  have 
forgotten  it  myself,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  leaping  of  my  heart. 

Ah,  that  foolish  dream  of  mine  had 
proven  true :  I  knew  her,  I  knew  her,  un- 
mistaking,  without  doubt  or  hesitancy 
-  and  in  the  dark!  How  should  I  know 
at  the  mere  sound  of  her  voice  ?  I  think  I 
knew  before  she  spoke! 

Poor  Jr.  had  taken  a  step  toward  her 
as  she  fell  back;  I  could  only  see  the  two 
figures  as  two  shadows  upon  shadow, 
while  for  them  I  had  melted  altogether 
and  was  forgotten. 

"You  think  I  have  followed  you,"  he 
cried,  "  but  you  have  no  right  to  think  it. 
[83] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
It  was  an  accident,  and  you've  got  to 
believe  me!" 

"  I  believe  you,"  she  answered  gently. 
"Why  should  I  not?" 

"  I  suppose  you  want  me  to  clear  out 
again,"  he  went  on,  "and  I  will;  but  I 
don't  see  why." 

Her  voice  answered  him  out  of  the 
shadow:  "It  is  only  you  who  make  a 
reason  why.  I'd  give  anything  to  be 
friends  with  you;  you've  always  known 
that." 

"Why  can't  we  be  ?"  he  said,  sharply 
and  loudly.  "  I've  changed  a  great  deal. 
I'm  very  sensible,  and  I'll  never  bother 
you  again  —  that  other  way.  Why 
shouldn't  I  see  a  little  of  you?" 

I  heard  her  laugh  then  -  -  happily,  it 
seemed  to  me,  —  and  I  thought  I  per- 
[84] 


The   Beautiful   Lady 
ceived  her  to  extend  her  hand  to  him, 
and  that  he  shook  it  briefly,-  in  his  fash- 
ion, as  if  it  had  been  the  hand  of  a  man 
and  not  that  of  the  beautiful  lady. 

"You  know  I  should  like  nothing  bet- 
ter in  the  world  —  since  you  tell  me 
what  you  do,"  she  answered. 

"And  the  other  man  ?"  he  asked  her, 
with  the  same  hinting  of  sharpness  in 
his  tone.  "Is  that  all  settled?" 

"Almost.  Would  you  like  me  to  tell 
you?" 

"Only  a  little  --  please!" 

His  voice  had  dropped,  and  he  spoke 
very  quietly,  which  startlingly  caused 
me  to  realize  what  I  was  doing.  I  went 
out  of  hearing  then,  very  softly.  Is  it 
credible  that  I  found  myself  trembling 
when  I  reached  the  twilit  piazza?  It  is 
[85] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
true,  and  I  knew  that  never,  for  one  mo- 
ment, since  that  tragic,  divine  day  of 
her  pity,  had  I  wholly  despaired  of 
beholding  her  again;  that  in  my  most 
sorrowful  time  there  had  always  been  a 
little,  little  morsel  of  certain  knowledge 
that  I  should  some  day  be  near  her 
once  more. 

And  now,  so  much  was  easily  revealed 
to  me:  it  was  to  see  her  that  the  good 
Lambert  R.  Poor  Jr.,  had  come  to 
Paris,  preceding  my  patron;  it  was  he 
who  had  passed  with  her  on  the  last  day 
of  my  shame,  and  whom  she  had  ad- 
dressed by  his  central  name  of  Rufus, 
and  it  was  to  his  hand  that  I  had  re- 
stored her  parasol. 

I  was  to  look  upon  her  face  at  last  —  I 
knew  it  —  and  to  speak  with  her.  Ah, 
[86] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
yes,  I  did  tremble !  It  was  not  because  I 
feared  she  might  recognize  her  poor 
slave  of  the  painted  head-top,  nor  that 
Poor  Jr.  would  tell  her.  I  knew  him  now 
too  well  to  think  he  would  do  that,  had  I 
been  even  that  other  of  whom  he  had 
spoken,  for  he  was  a  brave,  good  boy, 
that  Poor  Jr.  No,  it  was  a  trembling  of 
another  kind  —  something  I  do  not 
know  how  to  explain  to  those  who  have 
not  trembled  in  the  same  way;  and  I 
came  alone  to  my  room  in  the  hotel,  still 
trembling  a  little  and  having  strange 
quickness  of  breathing  in  my  chest. 

I  did  not  make  any  light;  I  did  not 
wish  it,  for  the  precious  darkness  of  the 
Cathedral  remained  with  me  —  magic 
darkness  in  which  I  beheld  floating 
clouds  made  of  the  dust  of  gold  and 
[87] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
vanishing  melodies.  Any  person  who 
knows  of  these  singular  things  compre- 
hends how  little  of  them  can  be  told;  but 
to  those  people  who  do  not  know  of 
them,  it  may  appear  all  great  foolish- 
ness. Such  people  are  either  too  young, 
and  they  must  wait,  or  too  old  —  they 
have  forgotten! 

It  was  an  hour  afterward,  and  Poor 
Jr.  had  knocked  twice  at  my  door, 
when  I  lighted  the  room  and  opened  it 
to  him.  He  came  in,  excitedly  flushed, 
and,  instead  of  taking  a  chair,  be- 
gan to  walk  quickly  up  and  down  the 
floor. 

"I'm  afraid  I  forgot  all  about  you, 
Ansolini,"  he  said,  "but  that  girl  I  ran 
into  is  a  —  a  Miss  Landry,   whom  1 
have  known  a  long  - 
[88] 


The   Beautiful   Lady 

I  put  my  hand  on  his  shoulder  for  a 
moment  and  said:  0 

"I    think    I    am    not    so    dull,    my 
friend!" 

He  made  a  blue  flash  at  me  with  his 
eyes,  then  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Yes,  you  are  right,"  he  answered,  re- 
beginning  his  fast  pace  over  the  carpet. 
"  It  was  she  that  I  meant  in  Lucerne  - 
I  don't  see  why  I  should  not  tell  you.  In 
Paris  she  said  she  didn't  want  me  to  see 
her  again  until  I  could  be  —  friendly  — 
the  old  way  —  instead  of  something 
considerably  different,  which  I'd  grown 
to  be.  Well,  I've  just  told  her  not  only 
that  I'd  behave  like  a  friend,  but  that 
I'd  changed  and  felt  like  one.  Pretty 
much  of  a  lie  that  was!"  He  laughed, 
without  any  amusement.  "But  it  was 
[89] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
successful,  and  I  suppose  I  can  keep  it 
up.  At  any  rate  we're  going  over  to  Ven- 
ice with  her  and  her  mother  to-morrow. 
Afterwards,  we'll  see  them  in  Naples 
just  before  they  sail." 

"To  Venice  with  them!"  I  could  not 
repress  crying  out. 

"Yes;  we  join  parties  for  two  days," 
he  said,  and  stopped  at  a  window  and 
looked  out  attentively  at  nothing  before 
he  went  on:  "It  won't  be  very  long, 
and  I  don't  suppose  it  will  ever  happen 
again.  The  other  man  is  to  meet  them 
in  Rome.  He's  a  countryman  of  yours, 
and  I  believe —  I  believe  it's  —  about 
-settled!" 

He  pronounced  these  last  words  in  an 
even  voice,  but  how  slowly!  Not  more 
slowly  than    the    construction    of   my 
[90] 


The   Beautiful   Lady 
own   response,  which   I   heard   myself 
making :  » 

"  This  countryman  of  mine  —  who  is 
he?" 

"  One  of  your  kind  of  Kentucky  Col- 
onels," Poor  Jr.  laughed  mournfully. 
At  first  I  did  not  understand;  then  it 
came  to  me  that  he  had  sometimes  pre- 
viously spoken  in  that  idiom  of  the  no- 
bles, and  that  it  had  been  his  custom  to 
address  one  of  his  Parisian  followers,  a 
vicomte,  as  "Colonel." 

"What  is  his  name?" 

"I  can't  pronounce  it,  and  I  don't 
know  how  to  spell  it,"  he  answered. 
"  And  that  doesn't  bring  me  to  the  verge 
of  the  grave!  I  can  bear  to  forget  it,  at 
least  until  we  get  to  Naples!" 

He  turned  and  went  to  the  door,  say- 
[91] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
ing,  cheerfully:  "Well,  old  horse-thief" 
(such  had  come  to  be  his  name  for  me 
sometimes,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  hear), 
"we  must  be  dressing.  They're  at  this 
hotel,  and  we  dine  with  them  to-night." 


[92] 


CHAPTER   SIX 

OW  can  I  tell  of 
the    lady  of    the 
pongee  —  now 
that    I     beheld 
her  ?     Do     you 
think  that,  when 
sne     came     that 
night  to  the  salon  where  we  were  a- 
waiting  her,  I  hesitated  to  lift  my  eyes 
[93] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
to  her  face  because  of  a  fear  that  it 
would  not  be  so  beautiful  as  the  misty 
sweet  face  I  had  dreamed  would  be 
hers  ?  Ah,  no !  It  was  the  beauty  which 
was  in  her  heart  that  had  made  me 
hers ;  yet  I  knew  that  she  was  beautiful. 
She  was  fair,  that  is  all  I  can  tell.  I 
cannot  tell  of  her  eyes,  her  height,  her 
mouth ;  I  saw  her  through  those  clouds 
of  the  dust  of  gold  —  she  was  all 
glamour  and  light.  It  was  to  be  seen 
that  every  one  fell  in  love  with  her  at 
once;  that  the  chef  d'orchestre  came 
and  played  to  her;  and  the  waiters  — 
you  should  have  observed  them!  — 
made  silly,  tender  faces  through  the 
great  groves  of  flowers  with  which  Poor 
Jr.  had  covered  the  table.  It  was  most 
difficult  for  me  to  address  her,  to  call 
[94] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
her  "  Miss  Landry."  It  seemed  impossi- 
ble that  she  should  have  a  name,  or  that 
I  should  speak  to  her  except  as  "you." 
Even,  I  cannot  tell  very  much  of  her 
mother,  except  that  she  was  adorable 
because  of  her  adorable  relationship. 
She  was  florid,  perhaps,  and  her  con- 
versation was  of  commonplaces  and 
echoes,  like  my  own,  for  I  could  not 
talk.  It  was  Poor  Jr.  who  made  the  talk- 
ing, and  in  spite  of  the  spell  that  was  on 
me,  I  found  myself  full  of  admiration 
and  sorrow  for  that  brave  fellow.  He 
was  all  gaieties  and  little  stories  in  a 
Way  I  had  never  heard  before;  he  kept 
us  in  quiet  laughter;  in  a  word,  he  was 
charming.  The  beautiful  lady  seemed 
content  to  listen  with  the  greatest  pleas- 
ure. She  talked  very  little,  except  to  en* 
[95] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
courage  the  young  man  to  continue.  I 
do  not  think  she  was  brilliant,  as  they 
call  it,  or  witty.  She  was  much  more 
than  that  in  her  comprehension,  in  her 
kindness  —  her  beautiful  kindness! 

She  spoke  only  once  directly  to  me, 
except  for  the  little  things  one  must 
say.  "  I  am  almost  sure  I  have  met  you, 
Signor  Ansolini." 

I  felt  myself  burning  up  and  knew 
that  the  conflagration  was  visible.  So 
frightful  a  blush  cannot  be  prevented  by 
will-power,  and  I  felt  it  continuing  in 
hot  waves  long  after  Poor  Jr.  had  ef- 
fected salvation  for  me  by  a  small  joke 
upon  my  cosmopolitanism. 

Little  sleep   visited   me  that   night. 
The  darkness  of  my  room  was  luminous 
and  my  closed  eyes  became  painters, 
[96] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
painting  so  radiatingly  with  divine 
colours  —  painters  of  wonderful  por- 
traits of  this  lady.  Gallery  after  gallery 
swam  before  me,  and  the  morning 
brought  only  more! 

What  a  ride  it  was  to  Venice  that  day ! 
What  magical  airs  we  rode  through,  and 
what  a  thieving  old  trickster  was  Time, 
as  he  always  becomes  when  one  wishes 
hours  to  be  long!  I  think  Poor  Jr.  had 
made  himself  forget  everything  except 
that  he  was  with  her  and  that  he  must 
be  a  friend.  He  committed  a  thousand 
ridiculousnesses  at  the  stations;  he 
filled  one  side  of  the  compartment  with 
the  pretty  chianti-bottles,  with  terrible 
cakes,  and  with  fruits  and  flowers;  he 
never  ceased  his  joking,  which  had  no 
tiresomeness  in  it,  and  he  made  the  lit- 
[97] 


The   Beautiful   Lady 
tie  journey  one  of  continuing,  happy 
laughter. 

And  that  evening  another  of  my  fool- 
ish dreams  came  true !  I  sat  in  a  gondola 
with  the  lady  of  the  grey  pongee  to  hear 
the  singing  on  the  Grand  Canal;  —  not, 
it  is  true,  at  her  feet,  but  upon  a  little 
chair  beside  her  mother.  It  was  my 
place  —  to  be,  as  I  had  been  all  day, 
escort  to  the  mother,  and  guide  and 
courier  for  that  small  party.  Contented 
enough  was  I  to  accept  it !  How  could  I 
have  hoped  that  the  Most  Blessed 
Mother  would  grant  me  so  much  near- 
ness as  that  ?  It  was  not  happiness  that 
I  felt,  but  something  so  much  more  prec- 
ious, as  though  my  heart-strings  were 
the  strings  of  a  harp,  and  sad,  beautiful 
arpeggios  ran  over  them. 
[98] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
I  could  not  speak  much  that  evening, 
nor  could  Poor  Jr.  We  were  very  silent 
and  listened  to  the  singing,  our  gondola 
just  touching  the  others  on  each  side, 
those  in  turn  touching  others,  so  that  a 
musician  from  the  barge  could  cross 
from  one  to  another,  presenting  the  hat 
for  contributions.  In  spite  of  this  extreme 
propinquity,  I  feared  the  collector  would 
fall  into  the  water  when  he  received  the 
offering  of  Poor  Jr.  It  was  "  Gra-a-az9 , 
Mi-lor !  Graz9!  "  a  hundred  times,  with 
bows  and  grateful  smiles  indeed ! 

It  is  the  one  place  in  the  world  where 
you  listen  to  a  bad  voice  with  pleasure, 
and  none  of  the  voices  are  good  --  they 
are  harsh  and  worn  with  the  night-sing- 
ing —  yet  all  are  beautiful  because  they 
are  enchanted. 

[99] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
They  sang  some  of  our  own  Neapoli- 
tan songs  that  night,  and  last  of  all  the 
loveliest  of  all,  "  La  Luna  Nova."  It  was 
to  the  cadence  of  it  that  our  gondoliers 
moved  us  out  of  the  throng,  and  it  still 
drifted  on  the  water  as  we  swung,  far 
down,  into  sight  of  the  lights  of  the 
Ledo: 

"Luna  d'ar-gen-to  fal-lo  so-gnar  — 
Ba-cia-lo  in  fron-te  non  lo  de-star. 

Not  so  sweetly  came  those  measures 
as  the  low  voice  of  the  beautiful  lady 
speaking  then. 

"One  could  never  forget  it,  never!" 
she  said.  "I  might  hear  it  a  thousand 
other  times  and  forget  them,  but  never 
this  first  time." 

I  perceived  that  Poor  Jr.  turned  his 
[100] 


The   Beautiful   Lady 
face  abruptly  toward  hers  at  this,  but 
he  said  nothing,  by  which  I  understood 
not  only  his  wisdom  but  his  forbearance. 

"Strangely  enough,"  she  went  on, 
slowly,  "that  song  reminded  me  of 
something  in  Paris.  Do  you  remem- 
ber" -  she  turned  to  Poor  Jr.  --  "that 
poor  man  we  saw  in  front  of  the  Cafe  de 
la  Paix  with  the  sign  painted  upon  his 
head?" 

Ah,  the  good-night,  with  its  friendly 
cloak!  The  good,  kind  night! 

"I  remember,"  he  answered,  with 
some  shortness.  "A  little  faster,  boat- 
man!" 

"I  don't  know  what  made  it,"  she 
said,  "I  can't  account  for  it,  but  I've 
been  thinking  of  him  all  through  that 
last  song." 

[101] 


The   Beautiful  Lady 

Perhaps  not  so  strange,  since  one 
may  know  how  wildly  that  poor  devil 
had  been  thinking  of  her! 

"I've  thought  of  him  so  often,"  the 
gentle  voice  went  on.  "I  felt  so  sorry  for 
him.  I  never  felt  sorrier  for  any  one  in 
my  life.  I  was  sorry  for  the  poor,  thin 
cab-horses  in  Paris,  but  I  was  sorrier 
for  him.  I  think  it  was  the  saddest  sight 
I  ever  saw.  Do  you  suppose  he  still  has 
to  do  that,  Rufus?" 

"No,  no,"  he  answered,  in  haste. 
"He'd  stopped  before  I  left.  He's  all 
right,  I  imagine.  Here's  the  Danieli." 

She  fastened  a  shawl  more  closely 
about  her  mother,  whom  I,  with  a  ring- 
ing in  my  ears,  was  trying  to  help  up 
the  stone  steps.  "Rufus,  I  hope,"  the 
sweet  voice  continued,  so  gently,  —  "I 
[102] 


The   Beautiful   Lady 
hope  he's  found  something  to  do  that's 
very  grand!  Don't  you  ?  Something  to 
make  up  to  him  for  doing  that!'9 

She  had  not  the  faintest  dream  that  it 
was  I.  It  was  just  her  beautiful  heart. 

The  next  afternoon  Venice  was  a 
bleak  and  empty  setting,  the  jewel  gone. 
How  vacant  it  looked,  how  vacant  it 
was!  We  made  not  any  effort  to  penetrate 
the  galleries ;  I  had  no  heart  to  urge  my 
friend.  For  us  the  whole  of  Venice  had 
become  one  bridge  of  sighs,  and  we  sat 
in  the  shade  of  the  piazza,  not  watching 
the  pigeons,  and  listening  very  little  to 
the  music.  There  are  times  when  St. 
Mark's  seems  to  glare  at  you  with  By- 
zantine cruelty,  and  Venice  is  too  hot 
and  too  cold.  So  it  was  then.  Evening 
found  us  staring  out  at  the  Adriatic 
[103] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
from  the  terrace  of  a  cafe  on  the  Ledo, 
our  coffee  cold  before  us.  Never  was  a 
greater  difference  that  that  in  my  com- 
panion from  the  previous  day.  Yet  he 
was  not  silent.  He  talked  of  her  continu- 
ally, having  found  that  he  could  talk  of 
her  to  me  —  though  certainly  he  did 
not  know  why  it  was  or  how.  He  told 
me,  as  we  sat  by  the  grey-growing  sea, 
that  she  had  spoken  of  me. 

"She  liked  you,  she  liked  you  very 
much,"  he  said.  "  She  told  me  she  liked 
you  because  you  were  quiet  and  melan- 
choly. Oh  Lord,  though,  she  likes  every 
one,  I  suppose!  I  believe  I'd  have  a  bet- 
ter chance  with  her  if  I  hadn't  always 
known  her.  I'm  afraid  that  this  damned 
Italian  —  I  beg  your  pardon,  Anso- 
lini!  — " 

[104] 


The   Beautiful   Lady 
"Ah,  no,"  I  answered.  "It  is  some- 
times well  said." 

"I'm  afraid  his  picturesqueness  as  a 
Kentucky  Colonel  appeals  to  her  too 
much.  And  then  he  is  new  to  her  —  a 
new  type.  She  only  met  him  in  Paris, 
and  he  had  done  some  things  in  the 
Abyssinian  war  - 

"What  is  his  rank?"  I  asked. 
"  He's  a  prince.  Cheap  down  this  way, 
aren't  they?  I  only  hope"  —  and  Poor 
Jr.  made  a  groan  -  -  "  it  isn't  going  to  be 
the  old  story  —  and  that  he'll  be  good 
to  her  if  he  gets  her." 

"Then  it  is  not  yet  a  betrothal  ?" 
"Not  yet.  Mrs.  Landry  told  me  that 
Alice   had   liked   him   well   enough  to 
promise  she'd  give  him  her  answer  be- 
fore she  sailed,  and  that  it  was  going  to 
[105] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
be  yes.  She  herself  said  it  was  almost 
settled.  That  was  just  her  way  of  break- 
ing it  to  me,  I  fear." 

"You  have  given  up,  my  friend?" 
"  What  else  can  I  do  ?  I  can't  go  on 
following  her,  keeping  up  this  play  at 
second  cousin,  and  she  won't  have  any- 
thing else.  Ever  since  I  grew  up  she's 
been  rather  sorrowful  over  me  because 
I  didn't  do  anything  but  try  to  amuse 
myself  -  -  that  was  one  of  the  reasons 
she  couldn't  care  for  me,  she  said,  when 
I  asked  her.  Now  this  fellow  wins,  who 
hasn't  done  anything  either,  except  his 
one  campaign.  It's  not  that  I  ought  to 
have  her,  but  while  I  suppose  it's  a  real 
fascination,  I'm  afraid  there's  a  little 
glitter  about  being  a  princess.  Even  the 
best  of  our  girls  haven't  got  over  that 
[106] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
yet.  Ah,  well,  about  me  she's  right.  I've 
been  a  pretty  worthless  sort*  She's  right. 
I've  thought  it  all  over.  Three  days  be- 
fore they  sail  we'll  go  down  to  Naples 
and  hear  the  last  word,  and  whatever  it 
is  we'll  see  them  off  on  the  'Princess 
Irene.'  Then  you  and  I'll  come  north  and 
sail  by  the  first  boat  from  Cherbourg." 

"I  — I?"  I  stammered. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "I'm  going  to  make 
the  aged  parent  shout  with  unmanly 
glee.  I'm  going  to  ask  him  to  take  me  on 
as  a  hand.  He'll  take  you,  too.  He  uses 
something  like  a  thousand  Italians,  and 
a  man  to  manage  them  who  can  talk  to 
them  like  a  Dutch  uncle  is  what  he  has 
always  needed.  He  liked  you,  and  he'll 
be  glad  to  get  you." 

He  was  a  good  friend,  that  Poor  Jr., 
[107] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
you  see,  and  I  shook  the  hand  that  he 
offered  me  very  hard,  knowing  how 
great  would  have  been  his  embarrass- 
ment had  I  embraced  him  in  our  own 
fashion. 

"And  perhaps  you  will  sail  on  the 
'Princess  Irene,'  after  all,"  I  cried. 

"No,"  he  shook  his  head  sadly,  "it 
will  not  happen.  I  have  not  been  worth 
it." 


[108] 


CHAPTER   SEVEN 

HAT     Naples     of 
mine     is     like     a 
soiled    coronet    of 
white  gems,  spark- 
ling only  from  far 
away.  But  I  love 
it  altogether,  near 
or  far,  and  my  heart  would  have  leaped 
to  return  to  it  for  its  own  sake,  but  to 
[109] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
come  to  it  as  we  did,  knowing  that  the 
only  lady  in  the  world  was  there.  .  .  . 
Again,  this  is  one  of  those  things  I  pos- 
sess no  knowledge  how  to  tell,  and  that 
those  who  know  do  know.  How  I  had 
longed  for  the  time  to  come,  how  I  had 
feared  it,  how  I  had  made  pictures 
of  it! 

Yet  I  feared  not  so  much  as  my  friend, 
for  he  had  a  dim,  small  hope,  and  I  had 
none.  How  could  I  have  ?  I  —  a  man 
whose  head  had  been  painted  ?  I  —  for 
whom  her  great  heart  had  sorrowed  as 
for  the  thin,  beaten  cab-horses  of  Paris ! 
Hope  ?  All  I  could  hope  was  that  she 
might  never  know,  and  I  be  left  with 
some  little  shred  of  dignity  in  her 
eyes! 

Who  cannot  see  that  it  was  for  my 
[110] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
friend  to  fear?  At  times,  with  him,  it 
was  despair,  but  of  that  br.ave  kind  one 
loves  to  see  —  never  a  quiver  of  the  lip, 
no  winking  of  the  eyes  to  keep  tears 
back.  And  I,  although  of  a  people  who 
express  everything  in  every  way,  I  un- 
derstood what  passed  within  him  and 
found  time  to  sorrow  for  him. 

Most  of  all,  I  sorrowed  for  him  as  we 
waited  for  her  on  the  terrace  of  the  Ber- 
tolini,  that  perch  on  the  cliff  so  high  that 
even  the  noises  of  the  town  are  dulled 
and  mingle  with  the  sound  of  the  thick 
surf  far  below. 

Across  the  city,  and  beyond,  we  saw, 
from  the  terrace,  the  old  mountain 
of  the  warm  heart,  smoking  amiably, 
and  the  lights  of  Torre  del  Greco  at  its 
feet,  and  there,  across  the  bay,  I  beheld, 

[in] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
as  I  had  nightly  so  long  ago,  the  lamps 
of  Castellamare,  of  Sorrento;  then,  after 
a  stretch  of  water,  a  twinkling  which 
was  Capri.  How  good  it  was  to  know 
that  all  these  had  not  taken  advantage 
of  my  long  absence  to  run  away  and 
vanish,  as  I  had  half  feared  they  would. 
Those  who  have  lived  here  love  them 
well;  and  it  was  a  happy  thought  that 
the  beautiful  lady  knew  them  now,  and 
shared  them.  I  had  never  known  quite 
all  their  loveliness  until  I  felt  that  she 
knew  it  too.  This  was  something  that  I 
must  never  tell  her  —  yet  what  happi- 
ness there  was  in  it ! 

I  stood  close  to  the  railing,  with  a 
rambling  gaze  over  this  enchanted  earth 
and  sea  and  sky,  while  my  friend  walk- 
ed nervously  up  and  down  behind  me. 
[112] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
We  had  come  to  Naples  in  the  late  af- 
ternoon, and  had  found  a  nate  from  Mrs. 
Landry  at  our  hotel,  asking  us  for  din- 
ner. Poor  Jr.  had  not  spoken  more  than 
twice  since  he  had  read  me  this  kind  in- 
vitation, but  now  I  heard  a  low  excla- 
mation from  him,  which  let  me  know 
who  was  approaching;  and  that  foolish 
trembling  got  hold  of  me  again  as  I 
turned. 

Mrs.  Landry  came  first,  with  out- 
stretched hand,  making  some  talk  ex- 
cusing delay;  and,  after  a  few  paces,  fol- 
lowed the  loveliest  of  all  the  world.  Be- 
side her,  in  silhouette  against  the  white 
window  lights  of  the  hotel,  I  saw  the  very 
long,  thin  figure  of  a  man,  which,  even 
before  I  recognized  it,  carried  a  certain 
ominousness  to  my  mind. 
[113] 


The   Beautiful   Lady 
Mrs.  Landry,  in  spite  of  her  florid 
contentedness,  had  sometimes  a  flutter- 
ing appearance  of  trivial  agitations. 

"  The  Prince  came  down  from  Rome 
this  morning,"  she  said  nervously,  and 
I  saw  my  friend  throw  back  his  head 
like  a  man  who  declines  the  eye-band- 
age when  they  are  going  to  shoot  him. 
"  He  is  dining  with  us.  I  know  you  will 
be  glad  to  meet  him." 

The  beautiful  lady  took  Poor  Jr.'s 
hand,  more  than  he  hers,  for  he  seemed 
dazed,  in  spite  of  the  straight  way  he 
stood,  and  it  was  easy  to  behold  how 
white  his  face  was.  She  made  the  pres- 
entation of  us  both  at  the  same  time, 
and  as  the  other  man  came  into  the 
light,  my  mouth  dropped  open  with 
wonder  at  the  singular  chances  which 
[114] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
the    littleness    of    our    world    brings 
about. 

"Prince  Caravacioli,  Mr.  Poor.  And 
this  is  Signor  Ansolini." 

It  was  my  half-brother,  that  old  An- 
tonio ! 


[115] 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

EVER     lived     any 
person   with    more 
possession  of  him- 
self than  Antonio; 
he  bowed  to  each  of 
us  with  the  utmost 
amiability;  and  for 
expression  —  all  one  saw  of  it  was    a 
little  streak  of  light  in  his  eye-glass. 
[116] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
"It  is  yourself,  Raffaele  ?"  he  said  to 
me,  in  the  politest  manner,  jn  our  own 
tongue,  the  others  thinking  it  some  com- 
monplace, and  I  knew  by  his  voice  that 
the  meeting  was  as  surprising  and  as  ex- 
asperating to  him  as  to  me. 

Sometimes  dazzling  flashes  of  light 
explode  across  the  eyes  of  blind  people. 
Such  a  thing  happened  to  my  own, 
now,  in  the  darkness.  I  found  myself 
hot  all  over  with  a  certain  rashness  that 
came  to  me.  I  felt  that  anything  was  pos- 
sible if  I  would  but  dare  enough. 

"I  am  able  to  see  that  it  is  the  same 
2/owrself!"  I  answered,  and  made  the 
faintest  eye-turn  toward  Miss  Landry. 
Simultaneously  bowing,  I  let  my  hand 
fall  upon  my  pocket  —  a  language 
which  he  understood,  and  for  which  (the 
[117] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
Blessed  Mother  be  thanked!)  he  per- 
ceived that  I  meant  to  offer  battle  imme- 
diately, though  at  that  moment  he  of- 
fered me  an  open  smile  of  benevolence. 
He  knew  nothing  of  my  new  cause  for 
war;  there  was  enough  of  the  old! 

The  others  were  observing  us. 

'You  have  met?"  asked  the  gentle 
voice  of  Miss  Landry.  "You  know 
each  other?" 

"Exceedingly!"  I  answered,  bowing 
low  to  her. 

"The  dinner  is  waiting  in  our  own 
salon,"  said  Mrs.  Landry,  interrupt- 
ing. She  led  the  way  with  Antonio  to 
an  open  door  on  the  terrace  where  serv- 
ants were  attending,  and  such  a  forest 
of  flowers  on  the  table  and  about  the 
room  as  almost  to  cause  her  escort  to 
[118] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
stagger;  for  I  knew,  when  I  caught 
sight  of  them,  that  he  had  never  been  wise 
enough  to  send  them.  Neither  had  Poor 
Jr.  done  it  out  of  wisdom,  but  because 
of  his  large  way  of  performing  every- 
thing, and  his  wish  that  loveliest  things 
should  be  a  background  for  that  lady. 

Alas  for  him !  Those  great  jars  of  per- 
fume, orchids  and  hyacinths  and  roses, 
almost  shut  her  away  from  his  vision. 
We  were  at  a  small  round  table,  and  she 
directly  in  opposition  to  him.  Upon  her 
right  was  Antonio,  and  my  heart  grew 
cold  to  see  how  she  listened  to  him. 

For  Antonio  could  talk.  At  that  time 
he  spoke  English  even  better  than  I, 
though  without  some  knowledge  of  the 
North- American  idiom  which  my  trav- 
els with  Poor  Jr.  had  given  me.  He  was 
[119] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
one  of  those  splendid  egoists  who  seem 
to  talk  in  modesty,  to  keep  themselves 
behind  scenes,  yet  who,  when  the  cur- 
tain falls,  are  discovered  to  be  the 
heroes,  after  all,  though  shown  in  so 
delicate  a  fashion  that  the  audience  flat- 
ters itself  in  the  discovery. 

And  how  practical  was  this  fellow, 
how  many  years  he  had  been  develop- 
ing his  fascinations !  I  was  the  only  per- 
son of  that  small  company  who  could 
have  a  suspicion  that  his  moustache 
was  dyed,  that  his  hair  was  toupee,  or 
that  hints  of  his  real  age  were  scorpions 
and  adders  to  him.  /  should  not  have 
thought  it,  if  I  had  not  known  it.  Here 
was  my  advantage:  I  had  known  his 
monstrous  vanity  all  my  life. 

So  he  talked  of  himself  in  his  various 

LMO] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
surreptitious  ways  until  coffee  came, 
Miss  Landry  listening  eagerly,  and 
my  poor  friend  making  no  effort;  for 
what  were  his  quiet  United  States  ab- 
surdities compared  to  the  whole-world 
gaieties  and  Abyssinian  adventures  of 
this  Othello,  particularly  for  a  young  girl 
to  whom  Antonio's  type  was  unfamil- 
iar ?  For  the  first  time  I  saw  my  young 
man's  brave  front  desert  him.  His 
mouth  drooped,  and  his  eyes  had  an  ap- 
pearance of  having  gazed  long  at  a 
bright  light.  I  saw  that  he,  unhappy  one, 
was  at  last  too  sure  what  her  answer 
would  be. 

For  myself,   I   said   very  little  —  I 

waited.  I  hoped  and  believed  Antonio 

would  attack  me  in  his  clever,  disguised 

way,  for  he  had  always  hated  me  and 

[121] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
my  dead  brother,  and  he  had  never  fail- 
ed to  prove  himself  too  skilful  for  us.  In 
my  expectancy  of  his  assault  there  was 
no  mistake.  I  comprehended  Antonio 
very  well,  and  I  knew  that  he  feared  I 
might  seek  to  do  him  an  injury,  particu- 
larly after  my  inspired  speech  and  ges- 
ture upon  the  terrace.  Also,  I  felt  that 
he  would,  if  possible  anticipate  my  at- 
tempt and  strike  first.  I  was  willing; 
for  I  thought  myself  in  possession  of 
his  vulnerable  point  —  never  dreaming 
that  he  might  know  my  own ! 

At  last  when  he,  with  the  coffee  and 
cigarettes,  took  the  knife  in  his  hand,  he 
placed  a  veil  over  the  point.  He  began, 
laughingly,  with  the  picture  of  a  pick- 
pocket he  had  helped  to  catch  in  Lon- 
don. London  was  greatly  inhabited  by 
[188] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
pickpockets,  according  to  Antonio's 
declaration.  Yet,  he  continued,  it  was 
nothing  in  comparison  to  Paris.  Paris 
was  the  rendezvous,  the  world's  home, 
for  the  criminals,  adventurers,  and 
rascals  of  the  world,  English,  Spanish, 
South- Americans,  North- Americans,  — 
and  even  Italians !  One  must  beware  of 
people  one  has  met  in  Paris ! 

"Of  course,"  he  concluded,  with  a 
most  amiable  smile,  "there  are  many 
good  people  there  also.  That  is  not  to  be 
forgotten.  If  I  should  dare  to  make  a 
risk  on  such  a  trifle,  for  instance,  I 
would  lay  a  wager  that  you  "  -  he  nod- 
ded toward  Poor  Jr.  —  "made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Ansolini  in  Paris  ?" 

This  was  of  the  greatest  ugliness  in  its 
underneath    significance,    though    the 
[123] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
manner  was  disarming.  Antonio's  smile 
was  so  cheerful,  his  eye-glass  so  twink- 
ling, that  none  of  them  could  have  been 
sure  he  truly  meant  anything  harmful  of 
me,  though  Poor  Jr.  looked  up,  puzzled 
and  frowning. 

Before  he  could  answer  I  pulled  my- 
self altogether,  as  they  say,  and  leaned 
forward,  resting  my  elbows  upon  the 
table.  "It  is  true,"  and  I  tried  to  smile 
as  amiably  as  Antonio.  "These  coinci- 
dences occur.  You  meet  all  the  great 
frauds  of  the  world  in  Paris.  Was  it  not 
there"  -I  turned  to  Mrs.  Landry  — 
"  that  you  met  the  young  Prince  here  ?" 

At  this  there  was  no  mistaking  that 

the  others  perceived.  The  secret  battle 

had  begun  and  was  not  secret.  I  saw  a 

wild  gleam  in  Poor  Jr.'s  eyes,  as  if  he 

[124] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
comprehended  that  strange  things  were 
to  come ;  but,  ah,  the  face  of  distress  and 
wonder  upon  Mrs.  Landry,  who  be- 
held the  peace  of  both  a  Prince  and  a 
dinner  assailed;  and,  alas!  the  strange 
and  hurt  surprise  that  came  from  the 
lady  of  the  pongee!  Let  me  not  be  a 
boastful  fellow,  but  I  had  borne  her  pity 
and  had  adored  it  —  I  could  face  her 
wonder,  even  her  scorn. 

It  was  in  the  flash  of  her  look  that  I 
saw  my  great  chance  and  what  I  must 
try  to  do.  Knowing  Antonio,  it  was  as  if 
I  saw  her  falling  into  the  deep  water  and 
caught  just  one  contemptuous  glance 
from  her  before  the  waves  hid  her.  But 
how  much  juster  should  that  contempt 
have  been  if  I  had  not  tried  to  save  her! 

As  for  that   old  Antonio,  he   might 
[125] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
have  known  enough  to  beware.  I  had 
been  timid  with  him  always,  and  he 
counted  on  it  now,  but  a  man  who  has 
shown  a  painted  head-top  to  the  people 
of  Paris  will  dare  a  great  deal. 

"As  the  Prince  says,"  replied  Mrs. 
Landry,  with  many  flutters,  "  one  meets 
only  the  most  agreeable  people  inParis !" 

"Paris!"  I  exclaimed.  "Ah,  that 
home  of  ingenuity!  How  they  paint 
there !  How  they  live,  and  how  they  dye 
—  their  beards!" 

You  see  how  the  poor  Ansolini  played 
the  buffoon.  I  knew  they  feared  it  was 
wine,  I  had  been  so  silent  until  now; 
but  I  did  not  care,  I  was  beyond  care. 

"  Our  young  Prince  speaks  truly, "  I 
cried,  raising  my  voice.  "  He  is  wise  be- 
yond his  years,  this  youth!  He  will  be 
[126] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
great  when  he  reaches  middle  age,  for  he 
knows  Paris  and  understands  North 
America!  Like  myself,  he  is  grateful 
that  the  people  of  your  continent  enrich 
our  own !  We  need  all  that  you  can  give 
us!  Where  should  we  be  —  any  of  us" 
(I  raised  my  voice  still  louder  and  waved 
my  hand  to  Antonio), —  "where  should 
we  be,  either  of  us"  (and  I  bowed  to  the 
others)  "without  you?" 

Mrs.  Landry  rose  with  precipitous- 
ness,  and  the  beautiful  lady,  very  red, 
followed.  Antonio,  unmistakably  stung 
with  the  scorpions  I  had  set  upon  him, 
sprang  to  the  door,  the  palest  yellow 
man  I  have  ever  beheld,  and  let  the 
ladies  pass  before  him. 

The  next  moment  I  was  left  alone 
with  Poor  Jr.  and  his  hyacinth  trees. 
[127] 


CHAPTER  NINE 

OR  several  min- 
utes neither  of  us 
spoke.  Then  I 
looked  up  to 
meet  my  friend's 
gaze  of  perturba- 
tion. 

A  waiter  was  proffering  cigars.  I  took 
one,  and  waved  Poor  Jr.'s  hand  away 
[128] 


The  Beautiful   Lady 
from  the  box  of  which  the  waiter  made 
offering, 

"  Do  not  remain ! "  I  whispered,  and  I 
saw  his  sad  perplexity.  "I  know  her  an- 
swer has  not  been  given.  Will  you  pre- 
sent him  his  chance  to  receive  it  --just 
when  her  sympathy  must  be  stronger 
for  him,  since  she  will  think  he  has  had 
to  bear  rudeness?" 

He   went   out   of    the    door    quick- 

ly-  . 

I  did  not  smoke.  I  pretended  to,  while 
the  waiters  made  the  arrangements  of 
the  table  and  took  themselves  off.  I 
sat  there  a  long,  long  time  waiting  for 
Antonio  to  do  what  I  hoped  I  had  be- 
trayed him  to  do. 

It  befell  at  last. 

Poor  Jr.  came  to  the  door  and  spoke 
[129] 


The   Beautiful  Lady 
in  his  steady  voice.  "Ansolini,  will  you 
come  out  here  a  moment?" 

Then  I  knew  that  I  had  succeeded, 
had  made  Antonio  afraid  that  I  would 
do  the  thing  he  himself,  in  a  panic,  had 
already  done  —  speak  evil  of  another 
privately. 

As  I  reached  the  door  I  heard  him  call 
out  foolishly,  "But,  Mr.  Poor,  I  beg 
you--" 

Poor  Jr.  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder, 
and  we  walked  out  into  the  dark  of  the 
terrace.  Antonio  was  leaning  against  the 
railing,  the  beautiful  lady  standing  near. 
Mrs.  Landry  had  sunk  into  a  chair  be- 
side her  daughter.  No  other  people  were 
upon  the  terrace. 

"  Prince  Caravacioli  has  been  speak- 
ing of  you,"  said  Poor  Jr.,  very  quietly. 
[130] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 

"Ah?"  said  I. 

"I  listened  to  what  he  -said;  then  I 
told  him  that  you  were  my  friend,  and 
that  I  considered  it  fair  that  you  should 
hear  what  he  had  to  say.  I  will  repeat 
what  he  said,  Ansolini.  If  I  mistake  any- 
thing, he  can  interrupt  me. " 

Antonio  laughed,  and  in  such  a  way,  so 
sincerely,  so  gaily,  that  I  was  frightened. 

"Very  good!"  he  cried.  "I  am  con- 
tent. Repeat  all." 

"  He  began, "  Poor  Jr.  went  on,  quiet- 
ly, though  his  hand  gripped  my  shoulder 
to  almost  painfulness,—  "he  began  by 
saying  to  these  ladies,  in  my  presence, 
that  we  should  be  careful  not  to  pick  up 
chance  strangers  to  dine,  in  Italy,  and 
—  and  he  went  on  to  give  me  a  repeti- 
tion of  his  friendly  warning  about  Paris. 
[131] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
He  hinted  things  for  a  while,  until  I  ask- 
ed him  to  say  what  he  knew  of  you. 
Then  he  said  he  knew  all  about  you; 
that  you  were  an  outcast,  a  left-handed 
member  of  his  own  family,  an  adven- 
turer-- " 

"  It  is  finished,  my  friend, "  I  said,  in- 
terrupting him,  and  gazed  with  all  my 
soul  upon  the  beautiful  lady.  Her  face 
was  as  white  as  Antonio's  or  that  of  my 
friend,  or  as  my  own  must  have  been. 
She  strained  her  eyes  at  me  fixedly;  I 
saw  the  stars  standing  still  in  them,  and 
I  knew  the  moment  had  come. 

"This  Caravacioli  is  my  half-broth- 
er," I  said. 

Antonio  laughed  again.  "Of  what 
kind!" 

Oh,  he  went  on  so  easily  to  his  be- 
[132] 


The   Beautiful   Lady 
trayal,  not  knowing  the  United-States- 
ians  and  their  sentiment,  as- 1  did. 

"We  had  the  same  mother,"  I  con- 
tinued, as  quietly  as  I  could.  "Twenty 
years  after  this  young  —  this  somewhat 
young  —  Prince  was  born  she  divorced 
his  father,  Caravacioli,  and  married  a 
poor  poet,  whose  bust  you  can  see  on 
the  Pincian  in  Rome,  though  he  died  in 
the  cheapest  hotel  in  Sienna  when  my 
true  brother  and  I  were  children.  This 
young  Prince  would  have  nothing  to  do 
with  my  mother  after  her  second  mar- 
riage and  - 

"Marriage!"  Antonio  laughed  pleas- 
antly again.  He  was  admirable.  "This 
is  an  old  tale  which  the  hastiness  of  our 
American  friend  has  forced  us  to  re- 
hearse. The  marriage  was  never  recog- 
[133] 


The   Beautiful   Lady 
nized  by  the  Vatican,  and  there  was  not 
twenty  years  —  ' 

"  Antonio,  it  is  the  age  which  troubles 
you,  after  all!"  I  said,  and  laughed 
heartily,  loudly,  and  a  long  time,  in  the 
most  good-natured  way,  not  to  be  un- 
done as  an  actor. 

"Twenty  years,"  I  repeated.  "But 
what  of  it  ?  Some  of  the  best  men  in  the 
world  use  dyes  and  false  —  " 

At  this  his  temper  went  away  from  him 
suddenly  and  completely.  I  had  struck 
the  right  point  indeed ! 

"You  cammorrista!"  he  cried,  and 
became  only  himself,  his  hands  ges- 
turing and  flying,  all  his  pleasant  man- 
ner gone.  "Why  should  we  listen  one 
second  more  to  such  a  fisherman!  The 
very  seiners  of  the  bay  who  sell  dried 
[134] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
sea-horses  to  the  tourists  are  better  gen- 
tlemen than  you.  You  can.  shrug  your 
shoulders!  I  saw  you  in  Paris,  though 
you  thought  I  did  not!  Oh,  I  saw  you 
well!  Ah!  At  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix!" 

At  this  I  cried  out  suddenly.  The 
sting  and  surprise  of  it  were  more  than  I 
could  bear.  In  my  shame  I  would  even 
have  tried  to  drown  his  voice  with  bab- 
blings but  after  this  one  cry  I  could  not 
speak  for  a  while.  He  went  on  trium- 
phantly : 

"This  rascal,  my  dear  ladies,  who  has 
persuaded  you  to  ask  him  to  dinner,  this 
camel  who  claims  to  be  my  excellent 
brother,  he,  for  a  few  francs,  in  Paris, 
shaved  his  head  and  showed  it  for  a 
week  to  the  people  with  an  advertise- 
ment painted  upon  it  of  the  worst  ballet 
[135] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
in  Paris.    This  is  the  gentleman  with 
whom  you  ask  Caravacioli  to  dine!" 

It  was  beyond  my  expectation,  so  as- 
tonishing and  so  cruel  that  I  could  only 
look  at  him  for  a  moment  or  two.  I  felt 
as  one  who  dreams  himself  falling  for- 
ever. Then  I  stepped  forward  and 
spoke,  in  thickness  of  voice,  being  un- 
able to  lift  my  head : 

"Again  it  is  true  what  he  says.  I  was 
that  man  of  the  painted  head.  I  had  my 
true  brother's  little  daughters  to  care 
for.  They  were  at  the  convent,  and  I 
owed  for  them.  It  also  was  partly  for 
myself,  because  I  was  hungry.  I  could 
find  not  any  other  way,  and  so  —  but 
that  is  all." 

I  turned  and  went  stumblingly  away 
from  them. 

[136] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 

In  my  agony  that  she  should  know,  I 
could  do  nothing  but  seek  greater  dark- 
ness. I  felt  myself  beaten,  dizzy  with 
beatings.  That  thing  which  I  had  done 
in  Paris  discredited  me.  A  man  whose 
head-top  had  borne  an  advertisement  of 
the  Folie-Rouge  to  think  he  could  be 
making  a  combat  with  the  Prince  Cara- 
vacioli ! 

Leaning  over  the  railing  in  the  dark- 
est corner  of  the  terrace,  I  felt  my  hand 
grasped  secondarily  by  that  good  friend 
of  mine. 

"  God  bless  you ! "  whispered  Poor  Jr. 
"On  my  soul,  I  believe  he's  done  him- 
self. Listen!" 

I  turned.  That  beautiful  lady  had 
stepped  out  into  the  light  from  the  salon 
door.  I  could  see  her  face  shining,  and 
[137] 


The   Beautiful  Lady 
her  eyes  —  ah  me,  how  glorious  they 
were !  Antonio  followed  her. 

"But  wait,"  he  cried,  pitifully. 

" Not  for  you!"  she  answered,  and 
that  voice  of  hers,  always  before  so  gen- 
tle, rang  out  as  the  Roman  trumpets 
once  rang  from  this  same  cliff.  "Not 
for  you !  /  saw  him  there  with  his  paint- 
ed head  and  I  understood!  You  saw 
him  there,  and  you  did  nothing  to  help 
him !  And  the  two  little  children  — your 
nieces,  too,  —  and  he  your  brother!" 

Then  my  heart  melted  and  I  found 
myself  choking,  for  the  beautiful  lady 
was  weeping. 

"Not  for  you,  Prince  Caravacioli," 
she  cried,  through  her  tears,  —  "  Not 
for  you!" 

[138] 


'Not  far  you,  Prince  Caravacioli"  she  cried,  through 
her  tears,  —  "  Not  for  you  I " 


DRAWN   BY   BLENDON   CAMPBELL 


Beautiful    I 

her  ey  «rious  they 

were!  Antonio  follow 

"But  wait,"  he  cried. 

"Not  for  you!"  she  an*  and 

that  voice  of  hers,  always  before  so  gen- 
tle, rang  out  as  the  Roman  trumpets 
once  rang  from  this  same  cliff.  "Not 
for  you !  /  *&w  him  there  with  his  paint- 
ed head  %i •:<*  f  understood!  You  saw 
him  *ng  to  help 

him!  And  \  iren — your 

niec  Hrother!" 

Then  my  i  I  found 

myself  choking,  for  the  beautiful  lady 
was  weeping. 

"Not  for  you,  Prince  Caravacioli," 
she  cried,  through  her  tears,  ~- "  Not 
for  you!" 


[  138  ] 

>TOVJ    T0\ 


\MO\J  io\  to  VI"  — 


CHAPTER  TEN 

LL  of  the  beggars 
in  Naples,  I  think, 
all  of   the  flower- 
girls   and  boys,   I 
am  sure,   and    all 
the  wandering  ser- 
enaders,      I      will 
swear,    were    under   our    windows    at 
the  Vesuve,  from  six  o'clock  on  the 
[139] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
morning  the  "  Princess  Irene  "  sailed ; 
and  there  need  be  no  wonder  when  it  is 
known  that  Poor  Jr.  had  thrown  hand- 
f uls  of  silver  and  five-lire  notes  from  our 
balcony  to  strolling  orchestras  and  sing- 
ers for  two  nights  before. 

They  wakened  us  with  "Addio,  la 
bella  Napoli,  addio,  addio!"  sung  to  the 
departing  benefactor.  When  he  had 
completed  his  toilet  and  his  coffee,  he 
showed  himself  on  the  balcony  to  them 
for  a  moment.  Ah!  What  a  resounding 
cheer  for  the  signore,  the  great  North- 
American  nobleman!  And  how  it 
swelled  to  a  magnificent  thundering 
when  another  largess  of  his  came  flying 
down  among  them! 

Who  could  have  reproved  him  ?  Not 
Raff aele  Ansolini,  who  was  on  his  knees 
[140] 


The   Beautiful  Lady 
over  the  bags  and  rugs !  I  think  I  even 
made  some  prolongation  of  that  posi- 
tion, for  I  was  far  from  assured  of  my 
countenance,  that  bright  morning. 

I  was  not  to  sail  in  the  "Princess  Irene  " 
with  those  dear  friends.  Ah  no!  I  had 
told  them  that  I  must  go  back  to  Paris 
to  say  good-bye  to  my  little  nieces  and 
sail  from  Boulogne  —  and  I  am  sure 
they  believed  that  was  my  reason.  I  had 
even  arranged  to  go  away  upon  a  train 
which  would  make  it  not  possible  for  me 
to  drive  to  the  dock  with  them.  I  did  not 
wish  to  see  the  boat  carry  them  away 
from  me. 

And  so  the  farewells  were  said  in  the 
street  in  all  that  crowd.  Poor  Jr.  and  I 
were  waiting  at  the  door  when  the  car- 
riage   galloped    up.    How    the    crowd 
[141] 


The  Beautiful  Lady 
rushed  to  see  that  lady  whom  it  bore  to 
us,  blushing  and  laughing!  Clouds  of 
gold-dust  came  before  my  eyes  again; 
she  wore  once  more  that  ineffable  grey 
pongee ! 

Servants  ran  forward  with  the  effects 
of  Poor  Jr.,  and  we  both  sprang  toward 
the  carriage. 

A  flower-girl  was  offering  a  great  bas- 
ket of  loose  violets.  Poor  Jr.  seized  it 
and  threw  them  like  a  blue  rain  over  the 
two  ladies. 

"Bravo!  Bravo!" 

A  hundred  bouquets  showered  into 
the  carriage,  and  my  friend's  silver  went 
out  in  another  shower  to  meet  them. 

"Addio,  la  bella  Napoli!"  came  from 
the  singers  and  the  violins,  but  I  cried 
to  them  for  "La  Luna  Nova." 
[142] 


A    hundred   bouquets    showered    into    the    carriage,    and 

my  friend's  silver  went  out  in  another 

sfwwer  to  meet  them 


DRAWN   BY  BLENDON   CA.UPBELL 


blushing  and  lau 
gold-dust  came  before  my 
she  wore  once  more  that  ineffable  grey 
pongee ! 

Servants  ran  forward  with  the  eff< 
of  Poor  Jr.,  and  we  both  sprang  toward 
the  car 

A  1'eri  rig  a  great  bas- 

ket of  i  d  it 

and  threw  them  like  a  blue  rain  over  the 
two  lad 

"Bravo  IB 

A  hundred  bouquets  showered  into 
the  carriage,  and  my  friend's  silver  went 
out  in  another  shower  to  meet  them. 

"  Addio,  la  bella  Napolil"  came  from 
the  singers  and  the  violins,  but  i  cried 
to  them  for  "La  Luna  Nova/' 

[I* 


The  Beautiful  Lady 

"  Good-bye  —  for  a  little  while  — 
good-bye!" 

I  knew  how  well  my  friend  liked  me, 
because  he  shook  my  hand  with  his  head 
turned  away.  Then  the  grey  glove  of  the 
beautiful  lady  touched  my  shoulder  - 
the  lightest  touch  in  all  the  world  —  as 
I  stood  close  to  the  carriage  while  Poor 
Jr.  climbed  in. 

"Good-bye.  Thank  you  —  and  God 
bless  you!"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
And  I  knew  for  what  she  thanked 
me. 

The  driver  cracked  his  whip  like  an 
honest  Neapolitan.  The  horses  sprang 
forward.  "Addio,  addio!" 

"Luna  d'argento  fallo  sognar  — 
Bacialo  in  fronte  non  lo  destar" 
[143] 


The   Beautiful  Lady 
I  sang  with  the  musicians,  waving  and 
waving  and  waving  my  handkerchief  to 
the  departing  carriage. 

Now  I  saw  my  friend  lean  over  and 
take  the  beautiful  lady  by  the  hand, 
and  together  they  stood  up  in  the  car- 
riage and  waved  their  handkerchiefs  to 
me.  Then,  but  not  because  they  had 
passed  out  of  sight,  I  could  see  them  not 
any  longer. 

They  were  so  good  —  that  kind  Poor 
Jr.  and  the  beautiful  lady;  they  seemed 
like  dear  children  —  as  if  they  had  been 
my  own  dear  children. 
+ 

THE    END 


THE  McCLURE  PRESS,  NEW  TORK 


STORED  AT  NRLF 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

• " 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


50m-6,'67(H2523s8)2373 


PS2972.E 


3  2106  00208  1419 


